


Ourselves and Immortality

by ETraytin



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Gen, Roger Tribbey is the President, Semi-Graphic Depiction of Death, So much character death, disturbing imagery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2018-08-18 05:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 63,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8150683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ETraytin/pseuds/ETraytin
Summary: "Roger, I'm sorry you drew the short straw on this. Next year it'll be the Surgeon General, I promise. Meanwhile, you can watch TV in my study." Roger Tribbey becomes President.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay everybody, mind the warnings on this one! I don't want anybody going in unprepared. This is a prompt fic response for AvengerAssembled (again) who asked for "Roger Tribbey's first hour as President." I'm not a big fan of "let's kill everybody" fic, but that's pretty much what you have to do to get your designated survivor in the big chair. Hope you enjoy.

Roger Tribbey didn't watch the State of the Union that night. It would always haunt him afterwards that he hadn't sat down to watch like a loyal member of the Bartlet Administration should have. But it had made sense at the time. He'd seen an advanced copy of the speech, and it seemed very good, and he didn't want to waste his hours in the White House sitting by a television. He'd been there before, of course, for Cabinet meetings and such, but never allowed to wander unsupervised through its halls and rooms. He gave himself a self-guided tour of the West Wing, monitored by Secret Service agents he expected were probably laughing at him, cruised through the Oval Office one more time, and then went further afield. 

He avoided the press room, where a handful of journalists were watching the speech from the relative comfort of their desks rather than jamming into the press area at the Capitol, and headed down to the Mess, where a gaggle of senior assistants were gathered with wine coolers and Chinese food, while another gaggle of legislative liaison and junior deputy types hung out on the other side of the room with pizza and beer. There was a television at the front of the room playing the State of the Union, but nobody was paying a lot of attention. 

From Roger's perspective, the assistants looked to be comforting one of their own, Leo McGarry's redheaded aide, who had probably had a very tough week with the announcement her boss had made about Sierra Tuscon. The junior deputies looked like they were trying to find a way to move in on the assistants, but weren't brave enough to try. Youth was wasted on the young, figured Roger as he sat down with the women to socialize. Most of them didn't know who he was, but Josh Lyman's blond assistant, Donna, recognized him and that was apparently enough to give him an in. Harmless flirting with a handful of very attractive women in the White House was a much better use of time than watching a speech that would be the topic of every news show for the next three days anyway. 

He was talking about school lunches with Ginger, the other redheaded assistant, when a scream from the front of the room drew his attention. Cathy or Carol, one of the dark-haired assistants, was standing at the television set with her hands over her mouth, staring at the screen. The speech had stopped because the President was sprawled over his podium, red-faced and apparently gasping for air. Roger wondered if he was having a heart attack, until he saw the Vice President and the other dignitaries in the background were gasping and choking as well, some of them sliding out of their seats. There was commotion behind the camera, many choking noises, a short, gasping scream, the shuffling and scuffling of bodies in motion. Something jostled the camera and threw it out of alignment, sending its viewfinder skewing at a crazy angle across the crowd. It looked like a scene straight out of hell. The distinguished and dignified attendees, the most powerful people in the country, were panicking and falling in the aisles, tearing at their ties and collars as though that would give them more air, turning red and then blue as they collapsed. By now Roger could hear more screaming, but all of it in the Mess itself as the staffers watched helplessly. It didn't last long, thirty or forty-five seconds at the most before the feed was cut and the network's “Please Stand By” logo appeared, but it might as well have been a lifetime. Someone was vomiting, Roger thought maybe he should do that as well. The air in the room suddenly seemed very close. 

He was still staring at the blank screen when the Secret Service burst into the room, at least a half-dozen of them, cutting through the confusion of the crowd to grab him by the arms and begin pulling him for the door. “Mr. Tribbey, please come with us!” He saw someone fall down, tried to reach out and help them up, but was all but lifted up off his own feet as the agents pulled him through the door and down a set of stairs he hadn't even noticed before. He had a vague impression of a long concrete tunnel and a steel door that had to be four inches thick, and then he was suddenly standing in a windowless conference room with a handful of military officers who were all shouting into telephones. This room had a whole bank of television, some of them showing static, others with standby messages or frantic newscasters. The pair on CBS were weeping openly, their voices muted but the emotion clear. BBC America was still showing Changing Rooms, Roger wondered inanely whether somebody would lose their job for that. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to him at all. 

In a previous life, long before Washington and lobbyists and learning more than he'd ever wanted to know about agribusiness, Roger Tribbey had spent three years teaching middle school science back in Southern California. It was the only time he'd ever had to command a room, so he called on that now, dropping a binder onto the table to catch people's attention. “Hey!” he called when people finally looked up at him. “Who's in charge here?” 

There was a moment's pause. “Um, you are, sir,” someone finally ventured. “At least until further notice.” 

Roger's heart dropped to somewhere below his diaphragm. “All right,” he went on, his voice rasping just a little, “who's second in command then?” 

A young man in a suit passed his phone to a uniformed officer and stood up. “That's probably me for the moment, sir. I'm Calvin Traeger, Deputy National Security Advisor. Nancy McNally... she was up on the Hill.” He swallowed hard. 

“All right,” Roger said, trying to push Nancy's face from his mind. He knew her, knew so many of those people from Cabinet meetings, from social events, most of them he even liked! But there was no time for any of that now. “Do we know anything about what just happened?” 

“Some kind of gas attack, released from multiple points inside the structure,” Calvin reported. “We're not sure what kind of gas it was, the effects don't exactly fit anything we've got a profile on. Whatever it was, it was very fast, and extremely deadly. Secret Service Agents in gas masks and protective clothing were in the structure within three minutes of symptoms first appearing, and found no survivors. They're having to be cautious about ventilating the building to avoid further casualties, but it looks right now like everyone who was in the Capitol Building is dead. They've confirmed the President, the Vice President, the Speaker and President Pro Tempore, and the other members of the Cabinet. You're it, sir.” 

A Secret Service agent broke in right about then. “Mr. Secretary, someone from Justice will be arriving momentarily to administer the oath of office to you. Do you have any family that we are unaware of?” 

“No,” Roger managed, through a mouth that had suddenly gone dry. “An ex-wife in San Diego, but that's it. Where the hell are we?” he asked suddenly. “I've never seen this place before, and I know it's not the situation room.” 

“This is the Presidential Emergency Operations Command Center, sir,” the agent informed him. “This is the safest place in the building during a serious threat.” 

“All right, okay.” He scrubbed his face, his mind wheeling. “I need someone to assemble all the ranking commanders,” he told Calvin. “We're going to appoint new joint chiefs right away. Get me... um, the deputy attorney general, whoever that is.” He racked his brain, trying to remember every piece of advice President Bartlet had given him, tried not to remember his last sight of that kind and accomplished man. Why was the only advice sticking in his head the part about the toilet handle in the Residence? “And find me somebody who knows what's going on here in the building who can talk me through it. Do we have any domestic policy advisors left?” 

Calvin got on his phone, and the Secret Service agent started talking into his wrist thing, even as more people continued filing into the room. There were more outside, he could hear, and although there were hollow voices and choked voices, nobody was crying. It was just as well. Roger was pretty sure that if anybody else started reacting to the magnitude of this whole thing, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from collapsing. In less than five minutes, another Secret Service agent showed up, escorting two of the assistants he'd met earlier and a man wearing a polo shirt and khaki pants who looked almost as shocked as Roger felt. The assistants both looked like they'd been weeping copiously, but the redheaded one's voice was firm when she spoke. “Secretary Tribbey, I'm Margaret Hooper, the Senior Assistant to the Chief of Staff, and this is Donna Moss, the Senior Assistant to the Deputy Chief of Staff for Strategic Planning. We'll be helping you with whatever you need as far as White House procedures and domestic policy until you name new staff and advisors.” 

Donna, who had recognized him just a half-hour ago, looked dazed and half-sick, but nodded along with Margaret's explanation and picked up from her. “This is Judge Seth Wyandotte from the DC Circuit Court of Appeals. He's going to administer the Oath of Office to you as soon as you're ready.” She held up a slightly ragged softcover Study Bible that had obviously been taken from somebody's office collection. 

Roger was pretty sure there was no way he was ever going to be ready for this, but now was absolutely not the place or time to say so. Instead, he placed his hand on the Bible and nodded to the judge, who read the oath of office off a slightly crumpled sheet of white paper. Roger repeated it back, and for once the room was otherwise entirely silent. No one applauded, but a silent sigh seemed to flow through the room as he finished. President Bartlet was gone, and they were in the middle of a disaster unlike anything the country had ever seen before, but there was a President in office now, and that was something. 

“Sir,” Donna said as soon as he'd finished, “there are reporters in the Press Room upstairs, they'd like to have a statement from you. The country needs to know that someone is in charge.” 

“The President can't give a statement in the Press Room right now!” Calvin immediately objected. “We're in total security lockdown here. We don't have a vector for that gas or any clue who the hell even attacked us! Even the White House may not be safe.” 

Donna and Margaret both lost a little more color at that, but Donna was insistent. “We can bring a reporter and camera crew down here then, have him make a televised announcement from the bunker. He has to speak, and it has to be now. It doesn't have to be great oratory, but the people need to know that somebody-” Her voice suddenly shook. “That somebody's still alive here.” 

“She's right,” Roger said with a nod. “Who do I need for that?” he asked the two assistants. 

“Carol Fitzpatrick is here, she's the senior assistant to the Press Secretary,” said Margaret, “and I think Henry-” 

“Henry went with,” Donna whispered. “He was wrangling the press corps, it was a last minute thing. But Carol can talk you through it,” she told Roger, her voice growing stronger. “There's a reporter in the press room, Danny Concannon. He's a... a friend of the administration, he's very good. He can help come up with questions you need to answer for the public.” 

“I don't know if Danny can do it,” Margaret murmured, mostly to Donna. “CJ...” 

“He'll do it,” Donna said firmly. “He'll do it for CJ.” Her eyes were wet, but her face was set with determination. 

Margaret hesitated, then nodded agreement. “You'll need to declare a state of emergency,” she reminded the new president. “The district is already locked down, but you'll make it official and ensure that federal aid can be delivered faster.”

Roger nodded, the thought had already occurred to him in a vague sort of way. “Do we know anything about Congress?” 

“Bonnie and Ginger are upstairs making calls,” Donna told him. “It was a full house tonight, but I can think of a half-dozen Congressmen and a few Senators who almost certainly weren't there. It's going to take a few hours to know anything for sure, all the local circuits are jammed.” 

“Put whoever's available on that, get them making more calls faster,” Roger instructed. “And get somebody watching the tapes, check people off a list if you have to.” 

“Sir,” Donna murmured, looking ill at the idea.

“It might be faster for us to work with the federal agents on the scene,” Margaret suggested. “I'm sure they're identifying... you know, identifying as they go. Between that and the calls, we should be able to figure out who wasn't there tonight.” 

Roger nodded to both of them. “I'm sorry,” he said, then raised his voice to be heard. “I know this is hard. I know most people in this room lost good friends tonight. But we have a duty to them and to this country that they gave their lives for. We'll have time to mourn later, when we've done everything that has to be done to keep these United States safe and whole and free. And I'll be counting on every one of you. Understood?” 

For some reason, Roger wasn't having any trouble commanding the room anymore. A chorus of soft “yessirs” and “understood” answered him as people returned to their tasks with great intensity. He turned back to the two assistants. “I'm about to have five tons of military brass descend on me with the force of an angry god,” he murmured to them. “You two may be my only civilian advisors until I can name a cabinet. I'm going to need a lot from both of you. Can you do it?” 

He watched as the two assistants looked at each other, two women who'd just lost most of the giant figures in their lives and half their coworkers in one horrible swoop. Margaret reached out and took Donna's hand, Donna squeezed back and nodded in response to some unspoken question. They both turned to face their new Commander in Chief. “Yes, sir.”


	2. Day One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday, everybody! Every so often, I'll have a story that could possibly have additional chapters, but I don't have any actual intention of expanding that story. And then, every so often, something happens that completely revitalizes my interest, and all of a sudden, a new chapter comes pouring out. That happened with me yesterday when LordYellowtail left me a really amazing and comprehensive review on this story, and suddenly there was a lot more of the story in my head than there had been before. So remember everybody, feedback is good and it is also effective! Hope you guys like this, even if it's in that weird "I hate you, E!" way.

The night had passed like a nightmare for the brand-new President Tribbey, but he'd gotten a lot done. He'd named his new Joint Chiefs in the hours after his inauguration, declared martial law, suspended trading on the stock market, all sorts of things a prolonged peace had made him forget that presidents could do. He'd been lucky, if anything on that day could be called lucky, that the Vice-Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Larsson of the USMC, had skipped the State of the Union due to his eldest daughter's precipitous labor earlier in the day. Larsson was missing bonding time with his new grandson, but at least he was alive and available to counsel the new administration in an hour of great need.

The other important thing he'd needed to do was the press conference, such as it was. More a press statement, really, filmed only by NBC but released simultaneously on all the networks. Roger had met Carol again, looking ten years older than she had in the mess, whose hands had shook while she helped him apply some very basic television makeup and reminded him how to look into a camera without appearing to stare down the millions of Americans watching. He'd met Danny Concannon as well, an energetic man with a ravaged face, smile lines on someone who didn't look as though he'd ever smile again. The reporter's voice had been quiet and methodical as he laid out questions that the President would need to answer as quickly as possible, arranged in order of importance. The most important thing, Danny had emphasized, was for the people to believe that there was still a government and that it was still working. 

General Larsson had crossed off several questions entirely for national security, and many others had been pushed down the list because they just didn't have any answers yet. For the rest, Margaret and Donna had brought down the Communications assistants, who apparently had the most experience at speechwriting of anybody left in the building. It quickly became apparent that Cathy wasn't going to be able to cope, so Donna had escorted her back out of the PEOC, murmuring as explanation that Cathy's boyfriend was top aide to a Congressman and they hadn't found him yet. The other two, Bonnie and Ginger, didn't look much better, but they bent themselves to the task. In forty minutes, they'd hammered out a list of talking points and a short preface that would introduce the American people to the brand new President they'd never heard of. Roger didn't really remember anything he'd said during his seven minute address to that silent camera, just that it happened and that nobody seemed any more panicked after it was over than they already had. 

Hundreds of federal agents in protective garb had combed the Capitol building all night, removing bodies and searching for clues to the perpetrator of this atrocity. All around the world, other governmental bodies were suspending their meetings, scouring their buildings for bombs and gas canisters. A steady stream of phone calls began around midnight, world leaders calling to offer condolences and assistance, but also to feel out the man now leading the world's superpower. With each call, Donna provided a brief notecard of information on the leader, the country, and their relationship to the United States, then sat in on the call on a muted line, taking notes about what was said. The world was awake and focused on America, and despite that, nobody arose to take credit for the attack. 

Somewhere around four in the morning, Margaret had led Roger to a tiny bedroom big enough for a married couple if they liked each other and left him there to get some sleep, as thought that weren't a laughable idea. He'd laid down on the bed for an hour and stared at the picture on the bedside table of the Bartlet family, surely left there to be a comfort to the old president, but now just filling the head of the new president with more ghosts. Had they all been at the speech? Next door, in what he assumed was probably another similar bedroom, someone was weeping inconsolably, voice muffled through the wall. Roger thought about going to see who it was, but realized there was nothing at all he could say. 

By the time Roger reentered the main room of the PEOC it was morning; a fact he could tell by the sunshine-splashed backdrops on the news programs still playing silently on the wall. Down here in the bunker, the sun could've turned green and risen in the West and he wouldn't have been any the wiser. Margaret was by his side immediately, wearing different clothes but looking as though she hadn't slept either, bringing him a bran muffin, half a grapefruit, and a cup of coffee. “I don't know how you take it,” she apologized as she handed him the mug. “I can get you cream and sugar.” 

“This is fine,” he told her, his voice a little hoarse from the recirculated air inside the PEOC. Fans while he was sleeping always played hell with his sinuses. “Anything new happening?” 

Calvin Traeger turned from his phone, the same one he'd apparently been glued to all night. “FBI teams have recovered a half-dozen devices from inside the air ducts of the Capitol building. Most of them are fully discharged, but one seems to be intact. They're taking all of them to a sealed lab in Annapolis for analysis. The White House has been scrubbed top to bottom and they've found nothing, but we're bringing in a second team to be sure. The Pentagon is being scrubbed as well, and arrangements are being made to increase security for all federal buildings and on the statehouse level as well.” 

Roger nodded. “Has anybody claimed responsibility?” 

“Not yet, sir,” Traeger reported. “Either it was a suicide attack and we have yet to find the message they left behind, or for some reason they've decided to bide their time. CIA reports indicate that the usual terrorist groups are rapidly disclaiming responsibility. Nobody wants a piece of this one.” 

“Sir,” Margaret broke in quietly, “if you'll give me the key to your house, I can have a couple of interns go and start collecting your clothing and toiletries so they'll be close to hand. Actually moving you in may have to wait a few days, what with the additional security and the citywide lockdown and all that, I can't imagine we'd have an easy time getting a moving truck anywhere close to the building...” 

“No, that's fine,” Roger interrupted numbly, reaching into his pocket for his keyring. He needed new clothes, but he hadn't even thought about moving into the White House. How would that even work? Would he really wind up sleeping in Jed Bartlet's bedroom when the man's body was barely cold, his possessions still scattered around with the carelessness of a man who thought he'd only been stepping out for the evening? Suddenly, the barren little bunk he'd rested on earlier seemed surprisingly appealing. “Don't make any arrangements for moving right now, just have them get me a few outfits together and my shaving kit. And maybe throw out the food in the refrigerator.” Margaret nodded, taking the keys and hurrying away.

The early morning hours were nearly as much a blur as the night before had been, though it was more from the hectic pace than the initial pall of shock. Roger was informed that most of the surviving White House staff had shown up for work that morning, an act of courage he had to respect. Shutdowns and outages were already being reported across the nation as employees of vital public services refused to leave their homes in case of a second attack. At 8:30 eastern time, Roger went back on the air with a statement crafted by the speechwriting team with help from Danny Concannon, reassuring the population that although they did not know who had perpetrated the attack, they now understood how it happened and what it looked like and would be taking precautions to ensure the safety of all Americans. Roger had no idea how true that was or whether they might be goading their faceless enemy into another attack, but he had to say something before blackouts and shortages led to riots. The patience and courage of the populace was the only thing Roger had going for him, and if that went, his government, such as it was, was sunk. 

The message was still being replayed two hours later when he got out of session with the new joint chiefs and national security advisor, a meeting that had given little insight to their current situation, but had increased Roger's overall paranoia level considerably. He hadn't really internalized how many enemies America had until now. All of his military appointments were provisional for the moment, subject to approval by the Senate, but of course that couldn't happen until there was a Senate to approve them. Margaret informed him that the governors of the various states were calling in with questions, suggestions, wanting to know if it was safe to begin appointing senators and sending them to Washington to run the government. Roger told her to round up a call sheet and he'd get to them as soon as he could.

Just after 10:30, Margaret raced in with a cell phone in her hand, wearing the first smile Roger had seen on anybody in twelve hours. “Zoey and Charlie are alive!” she crowed, clutching the cell phone in both her hands like a prize bouquet. 

“What?” Roger asked, afraid to believe. “Zoey Bartlet is alive?” 

Margaret nodded frantically. “Her Secret Service detail just reported in. Zoey and Charlie Young, the presid- President Bartlet's body man,” she corrected herself, “they've been dating for a few weeks. They slipped away from the State of the Union to go to a barbecue with his family in Virginia while all the press attention would be on the speech. After the lockdown, her agents lost contact with their chain of command and were worried about possible breaches of security, so they spent the night in Virgina, trying to find a way to bring them in securely. Where do you want them taken?” she asked on the heels of the long, single-breath recitation. 

Roger was taken aback. “Here, bring them here,” he said immediately. “She lives here, doesn't she?” 

“On the weekends,” Margaret agreed, “and she can't exactly go to her dorm under the circumstances, but with the change in administration-” 

“For God's sake, that's the last thing I care about right now!” Roger snapped, his voice loud with frustration. “The girl's whole family is dead, I'm not going to lock her out of her house as well! Just get them over here and we'll worry about the niceties of protocol later!” 

Margaret clamped her lips shut and nodded, moisture filming over her wide blue eyes, and instantly Roger felt like a complete bastard. Margaret knew who was dead, a lot more personally than he did, and yet she'd been nothing but calm efficiency for all these sleepless hours. “I'm sorry,” he said immediately, his voice much quieter. “That was uncalled for. Let's get Zoey and Charlie back into the building safely and figure out what to do about living arrangements later.” Margaret nodded again, relaxing a little though she still kept a death grip on the phone. “Have you gotten any sleep at all?” he asked her. 

She shook her head. “It's all right,” she told him. “I have excellent internal energy reserves. It's the echinacea and bee pollen smoothies.” 

Roger blinked at her, honestly unable to tell whether that was Margaret's peculiar sense of humor or if she was serious. “I'm sure you do, but nobody can go indefinitely. Where's Donna?” 

Margaret looked away. “She's in Foggy Bottom, at the warehouse where they've taken the bodies. They wanted a White House representative there to be part of the official identification team.” 

The mental image alone was enough to make Roger flinch. He thought about how ill Donna had looked last night, how she'd flinched at just the thought of rewatching the footage. “Was she the only one we could've sent?” 

“She's- she was the assistant to the Deputy Chief of Staff,” Margaret told him simply. “She has the Congressional face book memorized, and knows a lot of the aides as well, plus everybody in this building Nobody else from the White House could do it the way she could, so she volunteered. She's been there since before 5am, they have to be almost finished by now.” 

“All right,” Roger nodded, accepting the cruel logic of it. “When she gets back, both of you should get some rest. See if you can find somebody to pinch-hit while you're sleeping. And let me know when Zoey Bartlet gets here.” 

“Yes sir,” Margaret hurried away, back down the long insulating corridor. He watched her go, then turned back to the conference room, where he found Bonnie and Zach, one of the formerly-junior speechwriters. They seemed to be working out another press release, or maybe his next statement, or drafting their resignations for all he knew. 

“Zoey Bartlet is alive,” he told the room at large. For a moment, everyone was quiet, absorbing this information. 

“Thank god,” Bonnie murmured under her breath, a sentiment echoed by several others. Calvin actually smiled, just for a moment, before turning back to his phone. 

“She's coming back to the White House, along with Charlie Young-” Roger paused a moment to let that sink in as well, “and we're going to announce it as soon as she's here and safe. Let's give people one piece of good news. Write me something nice.” 

The speechwriters nodded and bent to their work. Margaret returned quickly with a call-sheet of governors listed in order of how important it was to call them back, though Roger had no idea how Margaret had made that determination. He decided not to question it at this point and got to work, this time with Margaret providing the notecards and holding the muted line. The governors were angry, afraid and uncertain, many of them calling from secured locations of their own until it was determined whether the various statehouses were safe. There wasn't much Roger could tell them except that the government was still at work, the FBI had leads, and the states needed to get off their asses and start appointing some new senators as soon as they were certain the ones they had were dead. 

He'd gotten through five of those conversations before there was a small commotion outside the command center, Roger rose to see Donna being escorted in by a pair of secret service agents, one of whom was all but carrying her with an arm slung under her slim shoulders. Her face was gray and she looked more than ill. She looked drained, as though some vital spark had leaked out of her during her early morning excursion, leaving behind a brittle shell. Even so, she straightened when she caught sight of the new president, lifting and extending a clipboard full of names for him to take. “You have eight senators and twenty-two congressmen, Mr. President,” she reported. “Everyone else is- everyone else is-” She faltered, swayed in place. The Secret Service agent next to her gently pushed her into the nearest seat and shoved her head between her knees. “I'm sorry sir,” she told Roger, voice muffled and choked. 

“Don't worry about it,” Roger told her, looking from the wreckage of his staffer to the clipboard in his hands. Neat pages of printed lists, checkboxes to determine whether each person listed was alive or dead, and whether that status had been personally confirmed by the White House representative. The first list was the longest, the House of Representatives, and for ease of reference, she'd circled the names of the legislators who lived. Otherwise it was rows and pages of “Confirmed Dead,” neat checkmarks with blue pen. Next was the Senate, done the same way, followed by the much shorter list of the Joint Chiefs, most of whom had been asterisked because Donna did not recognize them personally the way she did the members of Congress. The Supreme Court list was simple and short, eight justices, eight attending, eight dead. 

The lists after that were messier and less crisp, the list of the President and his Cabinet, all the names checked off except his own, which was circled. There were dried tears on this page, and the wrinkled edge from worrying fingers. The page after that was handwritten and wrinkled all over with tears and stray marks: a list of the names of the president's staff, starting with Leo McGarry and a nearly-illegible Joshua Lyman, and continuing from there. Toby Ziegler, CJ Cregg, Sam Seaborn, Mandy Hampton, down through the deputy press secretaries and legislative assistants to the interns who had managed to hitch a ride just to stand in back rooms and listen to the speech. At the bottom of the list, a single name with a question mark, Charlie Young. The list after that was slightly cleaner, but hit Roger even harder: the names of guests and dignitaries, starting with the first lady and her family. Abigail Bartlet, Liz Bartlet-Westin, Doug Westin, Eleanor Bartlet, all dutifully attending to support their husband or father, all gone along with him. In the margin, another name with a question mark: “Zoey Bartlet?” After those, a long, long list of people with familiar last names, spouses of important people or luminaries in their own right, people who had come for an in-person taste of the political process and instead lost their lives to terrifying madness. 

The room was deathly quiet for a few minutes but for Donna's rasping breaths while Roger tried to assimilate the long list of the dead. Finally Donna raised her head again. “I couldn't find Zoey or Charlie,” she admitted, seeming as though she were speaking more to Margaret than to the President. “I looked and looked and looked. I thought he'd be with them- the senior staff, I mean. They were all- the FBI people said they were all together, that they tried-” 

“Zoey and Charlie are alive,” Roger broke in, not sure he could stand to hear whatever else Donna knew about the last minutes of her friends' lives. Donna stared up at him blankly, as though she didn't even understand what he was saying. “They ducked out on the speech and went to a party instead, they're fine. They'll be back at the White House soon.” 

“They didn't go?” Donna repeated. “Oh my god...” She put her face in her hands and dissolved into helpless tears. 

Margaret looked to Roger for permission, to which he nodded as soon as he remembered he was supposed to be in charge here. Briskly gesturing to the Secret Service agent to help her, Margaret hoisted Donna from her chair and began escorting her away down the hallway. “It's okay,” he could hear her telling her distraught friend, “I'll take you over to the doctor, he'll give you something to help you sleep.” Donna seemed about to object to that, but then they rounded a bend in the corridor and were gone. Roger stared down at the list in his hands. Thirty survivors of five hundred thirty eight members of Congress, all of whom won the survival lottery by not showing up at the biggest governmental event of the year. One lonely member of the entire Executive Branch, and no Supreme Court except a single nominee awaiting confirmation from a nonexistent Senate. What was he going to do with this?


	3. Day One, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody! Today's just been a pretty lousy day IRL, which I guess is not a bad thing when you're writing minor apocafic like this. Sort of gets you in the mood! On the other hand, it's been a great couple of days for getting new readers and great feedback, which has done a huge amount to boost my optimism and keep me motivated. I hope you know how much it means to me every time somebody leaves feedback, even just a few words, or hits the Kudos or Favorite button. I'm lousy at replies because I'm always trying to get the new fic of the day done, but it really makes me happy to hear from you. Anyway, on to Chapter Three, and the end of Roger's First Day.

Roger spent much of the day finishing his calls to the governors and whatever heads of state he'd missed last night, marveling a little inside at how quickly words of shocked grief became rote and meaningless when repeated often enough. Ginger came in and worked with him for a little while, and though she was not as deft as Donna or efficient as Margaret, she did the job well enough. On a day like this, that was high praise. Margaret was back within two hours, brazenly ignoring his instructions to sleep as she took over once more. Roger appreciated the backup, but suspected that even the power of smoothies was going to wear out eventually. 

“I have some people from my office at Agriculture I'd like to bring in,” he told her at lunch, which was at a fashionably late four pm. They were eating sandwiches from Subway, an inane triviality that he'd found funny until Calvin had explained that bringing anything so large as a food delivery truck near the White House was an unacceptable security risk right now, so the mess was closed and plainclothed Secret Service agents were being sent out to buy food anonymously. It had taken a little something away from the taste. 

“You can bring in anyone you like so long as they're already vetted,” Margaret told him. “Once you start making Cabinet appointments you'll have to deal with the Senate, obviously, but you can still make provisional appointments in consideration of the state of national emergency.” She had disassembled her sandwich into its component pieces and reassembled it from the roll upwards, till it looked to him exactly the way it had before. “Who do you need, and where do you want them?” 

“I need a personal secretary, right?” Roger asked. 

Margaret nodded. “Mrs. Landingham is in the Residence, but she's not working right now.” 

“Okay. I'd like my office manager from Agriculture, Sylvia Rosenthal, to take that spot for now. If somebody can show her the ropes as soon as possible, that'd be good. I'd also like Liz Sumner, my communications director, and my PA, Alex Harrison. I don't know where I'm going to put them yet, but I'd like to get them over here to help out.” 

“We can do that,” Margaret promised, jotting quick notes on a steno pad. “Do you want to start looking at filling the senior staff positions?” Her voice was so carefully neutral that he looked up at her, but it was impossible to decipher what emotions lurked behind her attentive expression. Grief and anger, he was sure, he had that himself in spades. But what must it feel like to replace your boss and your coworkers less than twenty-four hours after their untimely deaths? 

“Pretty soon,” he told her, deciding this was one problem he could at least kick down the road. “I've got to take one thing at a time here.” 

She nodded again. “I'll have someone compile the hit-by-a-bus lists. Everyone had one.” 

It only took Roger a second to glean the meaning of the term from context. “Yeah, send me those. Also, how do I go about getting somebody vetted for staff?” 

“Just give me the name and I'll start the wheels turning.” 

“Eric Rocio,” Roger told her. “He's a partner at Tillinghast-Douglas-Merriman in New York.” 

“Prestigious,” Margaret commented as she noted it down. 

“Yeah,” Roger said with a slight smile, “he was always a lot smarter than me.” 

 

The end of lunch brought another meeting with the joint chiefs and the heads of the intelligence bureaus, all of whom were looking haggard by now. General Larsson had given his first press statement as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs earlier that day, and the FBI had media specialists working the networks. It had bought the White House some time to put the government's affairs in order, but Roger knew that grace period was limited.

“We have a suspect,” the director of the FBI said as soon as the room was secured. “We finished identifying all the bodies, and were left with two John Does, one of whom appeared to be a vagrant and was found outside the building by the main ventilation exhaust. The other one was dressed as a custodian, but had no identification on him. When we tested their hands, we found the janitor had traces of the same industrial lubricant used on the fittings in the gas canisters we found in the ventilation system. We brought in every surviving member of the Capitol's janitorial staff and none of them could name the man, though some of them thought he might be a new hire because they'd seen him working on the fans a few times in recent weeks.” 

“A janitor?” Larsson exploded. “We have thirteen hundred dead Americans because nobody thought it was funny that a guy in a costume was poking through the air vents on Capitol Hill? That's horseshit!” 

“It's a lead!” the director maintained, icily composed. “And a lead is better than the nothing at all we've turned up through military lockdowns and international backchatter.” 

The CIA director shook his head. “If it was international, nobody in the entire fucking world is talking about it except to piss their pants over the agent itself. It's not like anything we've seen on anybody's drawing board for speed, effectiveness... do you know how hard it is to kill people with airborne contaminants? Somebody always lives, somebody always gets off with a light dose. This thing wasn't  
like that. Whatever this is was so lethal, it killed everyone in that building in less time than it should take to suffocate, and so powerful that it killed a guy outside just because he was sleeping in the backwash of the system. If we're being pragmatic, the dead people we've got already are the least of our worries. We need to think about how many people are going to die next if that agent becomes widely available.” 

“What about the White House?” Roger asked. “Is that secure for now?” 

“Yes sir,” This came from Simon Donovan, interim director of Secret Service operations. “We're closely monitoring personnel and restricting access to all HVAC systems, but at this time we are willing to consider the White House secured.” 

“Okay,” Roger nodded. “Keep following up on that lead. Find out who this guy is, whatever you have to do. Prints, DNA, put his picture on every television screen in America. For now we maintain martial law and the lockdown around DC, but I want all personnel out of the PEOC and back up into the White House proper. We're going to lead from the front on this, and that means I have to be at my place of work if I'm going to ask other Americans to show up to theirs. That's all for now.” 

Margaret found him as soon as the meeting was over. “Sir, Zoey and Charlie arrived about an hour ago. They're up in the Residence.” 

“Good,” Roger acknowledged. “We're moving back upstairs anyway, I'll go and see them in a little bit. Margaret, do we have an official White House photographer?” 

“Yes,” Margaret said automatically, then hesitated. “Let me check.” She picked up Donna's clipboard from the table and leafed through it, looking at names. “Yes,” she said again, “looks like we do. Do you need her for something?” 

“Yeah, get here here as soon as you can,” he told her. “I want somebody who's not a reporter or looking for a story taking pictures of life going on at the White House. I'm going to be working out of the Oval Office, we're going to be taking meetings in the regular conference rooms where we can. I'd like to get pictures of Zoey as well if she'll allow it. People are going to be mourning the President, they'll want to see her.” 

Margaret made more notes, then paused in her writing. “Annie and Gus Bartlet-Westin are also in the Residence with their nanny,” she reported. “I think I probably forgot to say that before, because I forgot about it. I'm not sure what provisions are being made for them.” 

Roger's mind was blank for a second before he made the connection. “Jesus God,” he muttered. “Those poor kids. How old are they?” 

That took a moment of thought on even the formidable Margaret's part. “Annie's just turned thirteen,” she reported, “and Gus is fourteen months.”

“Just a baby. He won't even remember this.” Roger closed his eyes, momentarily staggered as the weight of tragedy hit home again. He couldn't let himself think about it too much or he couldn't do this job at all, but the horror and grief seeped in through every crevice and under every doorframe. “Do they have any other living relatives?” 

“I don't know,” Margaret admitted. “I'll check into it.” 

“How's Donna doing?” Roger asked, as long as they were addressing issues of personal grief. 

“The staff doctor sedated her,” Margaret informed him, doing the blank-face thing again. “I put her in CJ's- in the press secretary's office. She should be up soon. Do you need her for something?” 

“No,” Roger said, shaking his head. “I was just wondering. And the other one, Cathy? Did they find her boyfriend?” 

“Yeah,” Even Margaret's blank face wasn't enough to hide the flicker of sorrow. “I sent her home. She's not up for this right now.” 

“Okay.” They walked down the long hallway in silence for a moment, bracketed front and back by Secret Service agents. “How long did you work for Leo McGarry?” he asked finally. 

“Eight years,” she told him quietly. “I started working for him before he became Labor Secretary but took a year off during his sabbatical afterwards. He asked me back to manage the campaign office on Bartlet for America.” 

“I'm sorry,” Roger said, hating how useless and banal the words had already become. “I knew him a little. He was a good man.” 

“He was the best.” Margaret ran the side of one finger carefully underneath each eye, then drew a deep breath as they approached the stairs leading back to the White House proper. “We're in the East Wing now, would you rather go straight to the Oval or stop in at the Residence first?” 

Roger thought about it, but somehow the idea of sitting at the big, imposing desk in the big, imposing office seemed less frightening than looking into the eyes of his predecessor's daughter and grandchildren right now. “The Oval Office,” he told her. “We'll give them some time to themselves.” If Margaret saw through that thin excuse, she gave no sign of it. “Can we go there through the West Wing? I want to see what's going on.” 

The East Wing and the main floor of the Residence were largely deserted except for the expansive Secret Service presence, giving Roger weird flashbacks to his little self-guided tour, twenty-four hours and an entire lifetime ago. Approaching the West Wing from within the White House was strange, and it took him a minute to place the first office he came to as CJ Cregg's. It was dark and still, with all the blinds drawn behind its glass walls. Opposite it, he recognized the short hallway to the press room. Ordinarily this area would be full of reporters, but there were none right now, probably cordoned off somewhere for security reasons. Carol was sitting at her desk and yelling at some news organization, sounding more than a little frazzled and nearly on the edge of tears, but when Roger approached she hung up the phone and rose from her seat. “Mr President?” 

Roger shook his head and waved her to sit, though she kept standing. “I'm just heading for the office,” he told her. “How's it going?” 

“Fine, sir,” Carol told him bravely. “It would be good if we could start telling people when the first Presidential Press Conference is going to be,” she suggested. “Danny's in the press room now, wrangling the new press corps into line. Most of them haven't been in the room before, but we'll make sure they know the rules ahead of time.” 

“It'll be soon,” Roger promised, though he was anything but happy with the thought. Giving press conferences had been his least favorite part of his Cabinet job, and those had been tiny and low-stakes. This would likely be the grilling of a lifetime. “That's a nice fish,” he told her, looking at the bowl on her desk. A goldfish swam in a clear glass bowl, empty of ornament but for a layer of black gravel on the bottom. 

“Her name's Gail,” Carol said, a sudden thickness in her voice. “She's Danny's.” 

That seemed a little weird, bring your goldfish to work day, but it was obviously a sensitive topic and Roger wasn't about to press. He nodded instead. “My communications director Liz Sumner is going to be getting here soon. If you could show her around and get her started, maybe she can spell you on the phones so you can get some rest.” 

“Yes sir,” Carol murmured acquiescence, but didn't resume her seat until Roger and Margaret moved on. The first bullpen they came to was jam-packed and noisy, on the verge of actually chaotic, but the sound and fury died down immediately as Roger walked in. Operations and Policy, he realized, this was where people were trying to both run the White House and figure out who was going to run the country. No wonder it was barely-leashed disaster right now.  
He looked at the people who were watching him, many of them looking sleepless, many of them looking as thought they'd spent the day crying. “Thank you all for being here,” he told them. “Thank you on behalf of the entire country for the work you're doing under these incredibly difficult circumstances. Most Americans will never understand the debt of gratitude that they owe you, but on their behalf I am saying thank you, and have courage, and be strong. We will get through this together.” There was no cheering or applause, but a few curved backs and bowed heads became straighter, and that was close enough. 

Roger moved on past the closed door of Josh Lyman's office and Donna Moss' empty desk, through the deserted lobby and into the Communications bullpen to give them the same abbreviated pep talk. Things were only slightly less chaotic here, and Roger wondered who was crafting message right now, and what they were saying. What could the average American be thinking on a day like this? Those concerns were secondary, of course, to trying to figure out who had destroyed the government, and why, and whether it might happen again, but they were still important and needed addressing. All at once, he felt exhausted and very, very alone. 

Despite the crowded conditions in the Communications bullpen, nobody had taken over the two offices that adjoined it. They, too, were dark and closed off, though in Toby Ziegler's office, someone had placed a single electric candle in the window next to the door. Roger stared at it for just a moment as he walked past, wondering at the significance. How were they going to hold this many funerals? Margaret gave him a gentle and surreptitious nudge when his steps slowed too far, getting him around the corner and onto the relatively neutral territory of conference rooms outside the Oval Office. “Almost there,” she told him bracingly. 

In the outer office beyond the Oval, Roger got the most welcome sight he'd had all day. “Roger!” Sylvia Rosenthal raced towards him, throwing her arms around him in a manner that made the Secret Service agents all around them twitch noticeably. “I mean, Mr. President! Oh my god, it's so good to see you alive. I was watching the news last night and I saw what happened at the speech, and for a minute I forgot that you were the one not scheduled to be there, and I was crying and hyperventilating-” She looked to be about ready to hyperventilate again right now. 

Roger hugged his diminutive office manager, stroking a reassuring hand lightly over her auburn hair. “It's okay, Syl,” he reminded her. “I'm fine, I'm right here. Can you pull it together? I really need you on this.” 

Sylvia swallowed hard and drew back, nodding her head resolutely. “Yeah, I'm ready,” she promised. “Whatever you need.” 

“Good.” Roger smiled at her, then looked over at the other two visitors. “Liz, we're taking on water fast here. How soon can you get up to speed with Communications?” 

Liz Sumner was a small and deceptively soft-looking woman, a cute blonde who looked more like a weathergirl than a politico, but she'd been with Roger since his days in the California Department of Food and Agriculture, and she was a shark in disguise. “How soon can you point me to an empty office?” she shot back with a brave grin. 

“That's a little touchy right now,” he admitted. “We're going to find you a work space right now and go from there. They just lost everybody,” he reminded her, and she nodded soberly. “So walk as softly as you can.” Liz nodded, and Roger turned his attention to Alex. “I need you to get some kind of a map of this place,” he told his PA ruefully. “I have no idea where I am half the time, and I'm going to be sending you all over the place. If you can get with Margaret here and find out where my clothes have gone, I'm going to need some of those eventually, and a million other things besides.” 

Alex, nodded and smiled, though his eyes were shadowed. He looked as sleepless as everyone else, his dark hair disordered and spiky, his clothes rumpled on his tall, lanky frame. “You got it,” he promised. “Whatever any of us can do, we'll do.” 

“Have you called Eric?” Liz asked abruptly. 

“Not yet,” Roger told her. “He needs to be vetted before he can come in for anything. But soon.” She nodded, momentarily satisfied. 

“Okay,” Roger began with a deep breath. “I've gotta go in there and... do something. Listen to the senior assistants around here, they're the only ones who really know what's going on. Margaret, can you help them get set up?” Margaret nodded simply, then opened the interior door for Roger. With a determined stride and a pounding heart, the President stepped into the Oval Office for the first time.


	4. Donna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody! So today I was stuck in bureaucratic hell all morning, trying to convince a company not to send me to collections because I was unfortunate enough to be the victim of identity theft and they were dumb enough not to take notice of the fraud alert on my credit report. It was unfun almost beyond the telling of it. Since that was the mood I took into my writing time, you lucky people get more angsty depressing fic today! How lucky you are! (I've actually been getting a lot of requests for more of this story, y'all are gluttons for punishment!) 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter gets a POV shift and a specific warning for mild disturbing imagery, even though I went through and softened it up a bit from the first draft. Because I love you all, each and every one of you. Hope you enjoy!

Donna woke in darkness, and for a moment felt nothing but complete disorientation. She wasn't at home, she could tell that much instantly. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she realized she was in CJ's office, on the couch with a quilt thrown over her. She was confused all over again; when she snuck late-night naps she liked to use Toby's office. He had a very comfortable couch, and nobody ever dared barge into Toby's office, even when he wasn't there. Why was she in CJ's office? Then her mind cleared a little more and she remembered Margaret bringing her in here, already logy from the sedative. Remembered everything that had come before that, with a sudden pain that curled her body in a futile effort at self-protection. 

She hadn't wanted to go identify the bodies, but she'd volunteered anyway. Part of it was the reason she'd given the men from the FBI: nobody immediately available knew the White House staff and the members of Congress better than she did. She'd drilled for hours with the Congressional face book during Transition, and had a natural facility for names and faces besides. She was the best choice. But besides that, more than that, she'd realized that if she didn't see him one more time, she'd spend the rest of her life waiting for him to walk into the room and bellow her name again. 

It would be easy to say she didn't remember much of the eight hours she spent in the refrigerated warehouse in Foggy Bottom, that it was blurry in her memory or everything blended together after awhile. She would probably say that to anybody brave enough to ask about it, but it wasn't true. Someone had put an oversized FBI jacket on her to block the chill of the building, but it had still been cold on her face and her exposed hands as she clutched the clipboard. After awhile the cold had just crept into her, seeping into muscle and bone the way it had into all these people she'd once known. The agents were as kind as possible under the circumstances, offered her a break the first time she began weeping, but if she'd left, she never would've been able to go back in. After the tenth or eleventh body, she stopped cringing as hard every time a sheet was pulled back. After the hundredth, it was almost like drilling herself with the face book again. 

Most of the bodies were already identified and this was a formality, though she was able to help with the names of some Congressional aides and quite a number of Congressmen's wives. The men carried their wallets in their pockets, but matching the right corpse with the right handbag was trickier, and made for tougher identification. She scoured her brain for memories of a hundred fundraisers, did her very best. She didn't throw up until the face revealed under one of the white sheets had been Sam's. After that, none of the others had been quite as much of a shock. Not even his, though she'd had to look away and breathe through her fingers for a moment, trying to chase away the sight and smell of death with her own chilly aliveness. Donna hadn't been allowed to touch anyone. Evidence, they'd explained. There were so many of them. As they'd walked and worked, the agents around her had discussed where groups had been found and in what postures, what various conditions of rigor and lividity suggested, their early extrapolations of who had been affected first and worst by the spreading gas. She suspected they thought she wasn't paying attention, but every word stuck inside her head to play back later. 

The ride back to the White House really was a blur. Someone gave her a cup of coffee, put her into a car with the air blowing hot, but she was still cold. It wasn't until she walked back into the White House that the entire experience really settled in, and nearly took her legs out from under her. All those people, none of them would ever come into the White House again. All of that was over. She was still trying to process that as the Secret Service agent who'd accompanied her on the whole trip practically dragged her down the stairs to the PEOC. She gave her careful, careful list to the President, told him how many survivors he probably had, and then collapsed under her own overwhelming bad news. 

Margaret wound up dragging her back upstairs and to the staff doctor, whose office in the East Wing was one of the few places in the White House that Donna had never been. If she'd gotten sick in the White House, she'd always just toughed it out or gotten caught by Mrs. Bartlet, who preferred to do her own doctoring. Donna couldn't bear to think of Mrs. Bartlet, though, so she zoned out as the doctor looked her over and gave her a pill she didn't want to swallow. There was too much work to do, but Margaret insisted it wouldn't knock her out for too long, just let her sleep without dreams. The idea of dreaming was horrifying enough to make Donna take the pill. On the way back to the West Wing, she rambled with increasing incoherence about how the government had to release the bodies for funerals because he was Jewish and Jewish burials were quick and without embalming. His mother would be even more upset if she didn't even have the body, and what about Toby's family, who were even more devout? Somebody had to do something, and not every body could be evidence, could it? There were so many... Margaret promised to look into it, even as she arranged Donna on the couch and covered her up. That was all right, Margaret could accomplish pretty much anything. 

Now, nearly six hours later by her watch, Donna sat in the dark office and tried to collect herself. She was a little bit logy, but it was hard to tell if that was the sedative or the situation. Her stomach roiled, but again she couldn't positively identify it as hunger. The idea of eating was certainly unappealing. But she couldn't just sit here in the dark and think; she'd go crazy. Surely there was work to be done. Turning on the lamp, she checked herself in CJ's wall mirror, twirled her hair up into a bun with a pencil from the desk. Gail was gone, and for a second Donna just assumed the fish must be dead too, but that didn't make any sense. The mirror told her she looked like hell, which hardly seemed to matter right now. It was time to work. 

Carol was seated at her desk outside the office, staring blankly at the quiet phone. She jumped as Donna opened the door, spinning on her like she'd crept up and yelled boo. “Oh god, Donna,” she breathed. “I forgot you were in there.” 

“Sorry,” Donna murmured contritely. “I'm just gonna get back to work.” Gail was on the desk, still alive. That was nice. 

“Okay,” Carol replied with a nod. “How are you doing?” 

“I'm fine,” Donna told her. “I'm just gonna get back to work.” Carol looked worried, but nodded again and let her go. It was dark again outside, it got dark so early in January. The bullpen was busy, busy, busy, with the frantic edge it usually only had on the eve of big votes or Senate confirmations (no Senate confirmations now, she reminded herself), but less focused and more frenetic. Nobody seemed to know what they were doing. That was ridiculous, it was obvious that the first thing to do was gathering data on who the new special appointments to the Senate would be, and trying to forecast the special elections. They were also going to need to pull together all the candidate lists from the Mendoza appointment and take another good look at most of them, assemble a short list long enough to pull eight names from. Technically they should also be looking at the in-case-of-emergency lists all the senior staff members had assembled and figuring out how to restaff the West Wing as quickly as possible, but she wasn't going to handle that tonight. 

Donna strode briskly to her desk, falling automatically into her busy-at-work pace, and only slowed when she felt a ripple through the energy of the room. People were watching her, she realized, overtly or surreptitiously. She hadn't seen most of the Operations staff since before the State of the Union, they'd come to work while she was gone or sleeping. Given the way gossip flew in this place, they knew where she'd been, and were waiting to see if she was going to fall to pieces, maybe give them cover to do so as well. Not just yet, not when there was so much still to do.

“Karen, Jenny, Eric,” she called to the staff assistants nearest her desk, the ones who seemed most at loose ends. “I need one of you to check in with all the assistant deputies and see who's working on what right now. Get me a list, and who they've got helping them. Karen, can you take care of that? Eric, go downstairs to the archive room and pull the four boxes marked Mendoza that I think are still somewhere on the east wall. Jenny, can you get over to Communications for me and see what the press briefing schedule is like, plus pull any tape from this afternoon?” All three assistants nodded and hurried off, new determination in their steps. Donna nodded in grim satisfaction and toggled her computer to life. 

It was then she realized the other aberration in the atmosphere: every television in the bullpen was turned off. Nobody wanted to see what was playing on the news today. Part of Donna wanted to yell at them to toughen up; did they really think the videos and photos would go away if the TVs were off? The image of President Bartlet keeling over his podium was now the icon that would define the rest of their lives, as vivid and shocking as Jackie Kennedy in her pink suit and reaching for her dead husband, but with implications far more profound. Nobody here had even had to see the aftermath, but they still wanted to be shielded? She straightened, ready to turn on the TV across from her desk, then stayed her hand. The president- President Tribbey, she self-corrected, needed them working, not grieving. As long as Communications had the televisions on, Operations could hide for a little while longer. 

Finding work to do was not a problem. Donna was quickly up to her neck in coordinating activity in the bullpen and the busy hive of basement offices where the assistant deputies dwelled. It seemed like everyone had been waiting for someone with a plan to come along. Within an hour, she had all the various tasks farmed out to the deputies, who in turn could organize their own assistants, leaving her to draft the interns for runners and callers to assemble the vast reams of data they were going to need. It was already long past the end of the workday, but nobody made any noises about going home. Donna realized she wasn't sure if they even could, had no idea of the current security situation or the progress of any investigation. That wasn't her job, though, so she closed it out of her mind. 

Things were settling down to a busy hum when a man Donna didn't recognize came barreling down the hallway with the air of a man who barely knew where he was going but was determined to get there as fast as possible. “Can I help you?” she asked as he sped by. 

He skidded to a halt, his visitor's badge bouncing off his breastbone. That seemed to answer at least one question about the security situation. “I need to find the Operations Bullpen,” he told her earnestly. “I'm looking for Donna Moss.” 

She rose from her desk. “You're here, and that's me. How can I help you?” 

“Oh, thank God.” He smiled at her, which nearly made her recoil. Nobody was smiling today. How could he? Her expression obviously gave her away, because the smile instantly melted. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I was just- I was lost and ended up in the wrong wing, and there's Secret Service guys everywhere...” She continued to look at him blankly, waiting for him to come to the point. “Anyway, I'm Alex, I'm Secretary Tri- oh god, I'm President Tribbey's PA. He sent me out to find if you were available, and the woman with the fish said you'd be in Operations.” 

Donna blinked at him. “And you wound up in the East Wing instead,” she repeated. 

“This place is very confusing,” he told her piteously. On another day she might have laughed. Today she wanted him to go away. “Is the President in the Oval Office?” Alex nodded. “All right, you'd better come with me. Karen, I need to step away for awhile, call-” She hesitated. Somebody would be manning the desk. “Call Mrs. Landingham's desk if you need me.” A quick look at her own desk  
revealed nothing that was in a finished enough state to present to the president, so she picked up a clipboard she could take notes on and headed for the Oval, the hapless Alex in tow. 

There was a stranger sitting at Mrs. Landingham's desk, but she appeared to be trying to learn the phone system and barely looked up when they arrived. “Is he still in there, Syl?” Alex asked. 

“Yeah, go on in,” the woman, obviously Syl, answered with a wave of her hand. Alex pushed the door open without knocking and, despite cringing inside at the informality of it all, Donna followed him into the Oval Office. 

President Tribbey was sitting behind the desk, looking oddly dwarfed by it in a way President Bartlet never had, despite a substantial difference in height. Margaret was standing next to him with her own clipboard and looking, to Donna's practiced eye, completely exhausted. From across the room, Margaret caught Donna's gaze and inquired silently if she was all right. Donna nodded fractionally. “Mr President?” Alex announced. “I found Donna Moss for you.” 

The president looked up. “Oh, thanks Alex. Come on in, Donna.” He rose from his desk and stood awkwardly, as though not sure where to go from there. “How are you feeling?” 

“I'm fine, sir,” she told him. “I mean... I'm much better now, thank you.” 

President Tribbey studied her for a minute while she did her best to look poised and calm. “All right. Do you know anything about what's going on in Operations?” She nodded and filled him in, detailing exactly who was doing what and when they were likely to have any results worth showing. The president quickly began to look overwhelmed. “All right, it sounds like things are moving along. Who's in charge over there?” 

Donna hesitated. “The most senior assistant deputy is-” she began, but was cut off when Margaret jumped in. 

“Donna is.” The look Margaret gave her dared her to disagree. “Nate Price is the most senior assistant deputy, but you're telling him what to do, right?” 

“I'm coordinating,” Donna offered. “I know it's not exactly the way things are supposed to go, but people are used to getting their order from... from the deputy chief of staff through me, and it's been easier just to go with that, because there's so much to get done tonight.” 

“I'm not too worried about the way things are supposed to go right now,” President Tribbey assured her with a faint smile that was considerably less off-putting than Alex's grin. “I'm more concerned that they get done, and it sounds like you've brought order to chaos over there. I was going to ask you to step in for Margaret for a little while, but it sounds like you're doing more good where you're at.” 

“Sir, with all due respect,” Donna replied, “it's well after hours now and you don't look like you've had any sleep at all. Maybe you and Margaret should both take a few hours to rest and come back in the morning.” 

“You've got the press conference at nine tomorrow morning,” Margaret reminded him gravely. “You don't want to look like you do now when you go up there.” 

That drew a surprised bark that was almost a laugh from the president. “I guess I did ask for honesty above ceremony,” he allowed. “But honest to god, I don't know if I can find my way to the Residence from here.” 

“I can take you,” Donna volunteered. 

“All right,” the president agreed. “Margaret, you go home and get some sleep, that's an order. Don't just change your clothes again, you're not fooling me.” 

“Yes sir,” Margaret acquiesced, though she didn't look very happy about it. 

“Donna, I need ten minutes with Liz, Carol, and whoever else is handling Communications, and then I'll be ready to go with you,” President Tribbey informed her. “Can you have Syl get them for me?” 

“Yes sir, thank you Mr. President.” Donna and Margaret both left the Oval, Donna filling Syl in on the new instructions before they reached the corridor. Margaret opened her mouth to speak, but Donna cut her off, dragging her across the corridor and into Margaret's own office. “Go home,” she told the redheaded assistant. “Get some sleep if you can, throw out your perishables, get some clothes in a suitcase. I think there are some empty rooms downstairs, we can have some couches dragged in for sleeping. If coming back in the morning means you're back at 12:01, I'm not going to tell on you.” 

Margaret still looked ready to argue, but she also looked about ready to fall down. “I don't want to go home,” she admitted quietly. “I keep waiting for the next bad thing to happen, and I want to be here when it does. What if I go home and I can't get back here? What if the next thing happens here?” She pushed her knuckles hard against her mouth for a minute before saying anything else. “What if I go home and start thinking about everything that's happened and I can't come back here because it's all... How do I let myself think about it and still keep going?” 

“I don't know,” Donna admitted, just as quietly. “Try not to, I guess. Maybe it'll just sink in gradually over time. I feel so numb right now, but it's okay because there's still a lot to do. Maybe you could talk to the doctor too,” she suggested. “He'd probably give you something to help you sleep.” 

Margaret shook her head. “No, I better not. That's okay for an emergency, but it's not a road I want to go down.” She looked over at Leo's closed office door and her face very nearly crumpled. 

Donna leaned in and hugged her hard. “You're doing a really good job,” she said firmly, “an incredible job, and you'll do it just as well tomorrow. Just go get your stuff and see how you feel.” 

Margaret nodded, hugging Donna back just as tightly. “You are too,” she replied, “and thank god for it. I don't know how I'd even be standing. Are you going to be all right?” 

“Good enough for now,” Donna said, pulling back with a little squeeze of Margaret's arms. “I don't know about the long run for any of us, but we're still here.” 

“Yeah.” Margaret nodded. “I'll see you at 12:05. Keep it under your hat.” Bundling herself into her winter coat, Margaret picked up her purse and her bag of dirty clothes and headed for the lobby, leaving Donna standing in the empty office. 

She ought to go back to the bullpen, Donna knew, make sure things were still in order and tell them she'd be gone a little bit longer. But it seemed impossibly far away right now, especially with her emotions churning dangerously close to the surface. Even just sitting at her desk was difficult if she let her mind wander at all, with his closed door visible out of the corner of her eye. He was never going to open it again, and every glance reminded her of that. All the nice things she wished she'd done, all the times she wished she'd thanked him for everything he'd done for her, all the time she wished she'd said- 

No. She didn't wish that, not even a little bit. Her best friend in the world was dead and it felt like half of her was dead as well, underneath the work and the concentrating and the not letting herself think about it. If he'd been more than that, if she even let herself think that he might have been more than that, Donna didn't know how she'd be able to survive it at all. So she wouldn't. She had a lot of work to do, and that was what she needed to concentrate on now. With one more deep breath, Donna gathered herself and left Margaret's office, heading back towards the Oval the long way. The bullpen could take care of itself for a few more minutes.


	5. The Residence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody, here's Chapter 5! We're back in Roger's perspective, but from this point on I'll be switching in and out, bringing you various peoples' points of view. Thank you so much to everyone who has reached out in comments or by messaging me on Tumblr to say they like this story! It's kind of terrible and draining to write at times, but I enjoy the fact that you all enjoy it. So I guess what I'm saying is feedback is good, give me more!

Roger followed Donna and his lead Secret Service agent out of the Oval Office and down the broad walkway that ran alongside the Rose Garden. It was the first time he'd been outside since the State of the Union, and for a moment he felt completely exposed, naked to the world despite a fence, a security lockdown, and the best-trained bodyguards in the world. He looked to Donna, who didn't turn a hair at being outdoors, and at the Secret Service agents, expressionless and alert, and decided he was just going to have to get over it. Besides, the niggling, horrible voice at the back of his brain piped up, in this particular disaster, outside was safer anyway. 

By going outdoors, they avoided another trip through the West Wing, a tour Roger was already starting to recognize as very disruptive to work. He wondered if he was allowed to make it a rule that the people who were actually trying to run the country didn't need to stand up whenever the president came into the room. He was definitely going to insist that Sylvia not pick up that habit, or she'd never get anything done. The portico opened into the first-floor lobby of the Residence, where Donna led him wordlessly up a broad flight of stairs, her heels clicking softly against the tiles. She looked better than she had back in the PEOC this afternoon, but that was a very low bar to clear. Roger thought about asking how she was doing, but decided not to. Asking how anybody was doing was a lot more fraught than it had been day before yesterday. 

Roger had never been on the second floor of the Residence before. It was less palatial than he'd imagined: beautiful, but in the way a really nice home was beautiful, not a mansion or a palace. This was the President's private family retreat, all the priceless artifacts stayed in the display rooms downstairs. Donna led him to the end of the hallway, where the open door revealed a sitting room arranged in front of a massive circular window. She knocked lightly on the doorframe. “Zoey, President Tribbey is here,” she announced, her voice soft and gentle. “Are you ready?” 

“Yeah,” came a faint voice from inside. Donna stepped back, allowing Roger to walk in first. Actually doing so required maybe the most courage of anything Roger'd had to do so far. He recognized all the adults in the room at least a little: Zoey Bartlet, the president's youngest daughter, Charlie Young, the president's new right-hand man, and Mrs. Landingham, who surely had a first name as well, but whom Roger knew as the friendly battleaxe who guarded the Oval Office and handed out cookies to the worthy. Zoey and Charlie were huddled together on one couch, while Mrs. Landingham sat opposite, next to a young girl Roger hadn't met but could guess from context was Annie Westin. A portable crib in the shadows in front of the window suggested that Gus was also present. The grief in this room was a palpable, crushing weight, but everyone still rose as he entered, even the little girl. Roger instantly despised that ritual a hundred times more.

“Please, please sit,” he insisted, even as he tried to decide if he should stand or sit himself, if anything would truly be less awkward here. While he vacillated, Donna moved to hug Zoey, murmuring something in her ear and then kissing her forehead as Zoey nodded slightly, then gave Charlie a hard, near-bonecrushing hug as well. He returned it with his eyes squeezed shut, wordless but for the pain written on his face. When he pulled away, Donna crossed to the other sofa and had a few soft words with Annie, then exchanged a long, wordless glance with Mrs. Landingham. The two assistants did not hug, but Donna sat down next to her on the sofa and took her hand instead. Roger was once again forcibly reminded of all the undercurrents running through this White House, relationships that he would never be party to and couldn't understand, except for a vague knowledge of how many were shattered now. 

He picked a wingback chair nearer the window, pulling it around to face the couches. “I wanted to know if there's anything I can do for you,” he began, addressing his words mostly to Zoey, but taking in the room. “I can't begin to say how relieved and grateful we were to hear that you two were alive. I think it was the best news I heard all day.” Zoey mustered an infinitesimal smile for that, even as she began tearing up again. “This whole situation is horrible, and it must be overwhelming, but if there's any way I can make things easier for you, please let me know. I've been told there are spare bedrooms on the third floor and I plan on taking one of them for the foreseeable future. You, all of you, are welcome for as long as you want. I am absolutely not going to put you out, so please don't even worry-” 

“Thank you,” Zoey murmured, cutting him off before he could lose track of his thoughts too badly. “We... the social secretary and a guy, the chief of ceremonies, I guess, were here a little bit ago, we have to stay for the funerals. They... god, I don't even know what they're going to do for the funerals, but my f-father's has to be here in Washington. A state funeral.” She hiccuped, and Charlie tightened his supportive arm around her. “But when it's done, I just want to go home to Manchester.” 

“Of course,” Roger agreed softly. He glanced over to Donna, who met his gaze and nodded. Somebody needed to be running interference up here, the last thing Zoey needed to be dealing with was the details of her father's state funeral, not to mention burying nearly every relative she had. “I'm going to make sure somebody comes up here who can help you out with all those details.” 

Charlie spoke up for the first time, his voice raw. “Have you found out anything yet about who did this?” he asked. “Or why?” Zoey looked up at that as well, her eyes seeming to burn into Roger. 

“The FBI is chasing down leads,” Roger told him carefully. “We still don't know a lot. But I promise you that I will do everything in my power to make sure that the people responsible are tracked down and punished.” 

“I don't really care that much about punishment,” Zoey whispered. “I'm just afraid it's going to happen again.” Roger found that there was really nothing he could say in response to that. 

Donna stepped in to save him, asking quiet questions about whether they'd been eating and sleeping, asking Charlie about his sister, apparently still staying with the relatives he and Zoey had been visiting during the speech. Without directly asking, she teased out the fact that the children would be going with their Westin relatives after the funeral, and that Mrs. Landingham would be staying in one of the second floor family bedrooms for the moment, then made arrangements with the executive secretary for someone to bring clothes and necessities to her. “We're going to let you get some rest,” Donna told them after a few minutes, “but tomorrow there'll be someone up here to help sort things out. Mister President?” 

Roger took the cue, rising from his seat, motioning for the others to stay seated. He looked to Zoey. “I know sorry isn't close to good enough, and I'm sure it's probably all you've been hearing all day. But the entire nation is grieving with you tonight, and tomorrow we get back to work on making sure it never happens again.” Zoey nodded wordlessly before hiding her face against Charlie's shoulder. Charlie met Roger's eyes, not really a challenge, but certainly an assertion that Roger had better get this right. Roger nodded and left the room, Donna following on his heels. Even just stepping into the hallway made the atmosphere seem lighter, the air easier to breathe. He wondered if it was cowardice to feel grateful that he could walk away. 

Donna took the lead in the hallway, showing him to another flight of stairs. “The kitchen is over there,” she pointed, “it's kept stocked and I imagine they can get you whatever you ask for. There's a staff that takes care of meals and cleaning, but I don't know very much about that,” she admitted. They headed up the stairs and into another stately hallway, this one lined with less art and more doors. “The solarium is up here,” she informed him, “and the music room, another small kitchen, the workout room, and offices for some of the Residence Staff.” Donna closed her eyes a moment, as though trying to recall memorized information. “There's also a game room, a greenhouse, a sitting room and five bedrooms, plus storage. This is the biggest bedroom.” She pushed open a door to reveal a pleasantly decorated room that reminded him of the bedroom at a high-end hotel. “There's an attached bath and a closet, though I don't think the view is going to be very good, since you're tucked in the corner just behind the square portico. If you'd rather have the bedroom across the hall, or really any bedroom you'd like, that's completely fine and we can arrange that for you.” Her voice, which had been so calm and reassuring as she'd dealt with the remains of the Bartlet family, was coming fast and faster now, edged with distress she no longer seemed able to hide. “But I think the smaller bedrooms on this floor have bunk beds and you wouldn't want-” 

Roger put a hand on her shoulder, making her startle and stop talking. “Donna,” he told her, “it's okay. Take a deep breath.” She stared at him with wide, dry eyes and complied, though he noticed her fingers were still locked painfully tight around her pen and clipboard. “This bedroom is great, it's perfect. I don't need anything more than this. You're doing a fine job,” he assured her. “I know there's a lot to do, but you don't have to do all of it this second.” 

She dropped her eyes. “I'm sorry, sir,” she murmured. “Zoey and I and- and my boss, we spent a lot of time together on the campaign, before she went to college. I wish I could help her.” 

“Don't be sorry,” Roger told her. “You're not doing anything wrong. I wish I could help her too. We'll do everything we can. Are you going to be all right?” 

“Yes sir,” she told him, though the look in her eyes was anything but certain. “Let me show you the phone system and you can get some rest.” Roger decided it was more merciful not to push her any further, took his lesson on the phones, then let her escape. 

Despite being so isolated, Roger's room was not entirely quiet. He could hear the footsteps of the Secret Service agents outside as they changed positions every so often, hear the rattle of the windowpanes in the January wind. He thought of JFK's funeral, back when he'd been just a kid, and how Jackie and her children had walked behind the hearse. God, that would be cold in January. Could they even risk such large events right now, not knowing who else might be on the target list? He wondered if it was possible the terrorists were waiting for them to assemble an entire new government, just to wipe it out again. There was no way the country would recover from that. Whoever they were, they needed to be caught. 

With those morbid thoughts in his head, Roger picked up the phone and laboriously navigated his way to an outside line. He dialed a number he knew by heart but didn't have time to use often enough, and listened to it ring. “Rocio,” came a curt voice on the other end after three rings. 

“So is it a rule in New York that you're not allowed to say hello, or is that just you?” Roger asked, letting himself smile and relax a little as he kicked back on the bed. 

“Roger?” Eric Rocio's voice was full of surprise. “I mean... what the hell am I supposed to call you?” 

“Roger, please,” Roger said immediately. “I don't think anybody in this building is allowed to use my first name. It's very offputting.” 

“God, I saw your press statement on the news, it was surreal.” Eric's usually boisterous voice was hushed. “What's going on out there? How are you doing?” 

“Surreal is a good word for it,” Roger agreed. “I'm in a bedroom at the White House right now, trying to figure out how I'm going to govern a country with less than ten percent of the governing body available to do it. This whole place is in shock and mourning, my assistants waver between impressive, incredible efficiency and the thin edge of breakdowns, and the highest ranking staffer I've been able to find is Chief of Staff to the First Lady, who I guess is going to be unemployed pretty soon unless I convince Louisa that maybe ten years really does change a man,” he joked weakly. 

“Do not do that,” Eric said immediately. “Do not even try.” 

“I was kidding,” Roger protested. “God, does the president not get to joke at all? Not that there's a lot of humor to find right now anyway.” 

“Yeah, I'll bet,” Eric agreed. 

“I need you out here,” Roger told him. “How soon can you make it to DC?” 

“What?” Eric asked. “I think even after the other night, DC has enough lawyers.” 

Roger took a deep breath. “Before he left for the speech, President Bartlet asked me if I had a best friend. He asked me if that best friend was smarter than me. And he told me that was the guy I needed as my chief of staff. I need you, Eric. I'm out in the tall grass here.” 

There was silence on the line for a minute. “That's a hell of a job offer,” Eric finally said. “And I'm putting all the emphasis on hell. I can be down tomorrow afternoon.” 

“Good.” Roger let out a breath, letting his lungs relax. “They're already getting you vetted. And Liz has already asked about you.” 

He could almost see Eric's wince over the phone line. “Did I already mention the part about hell?” Eric asked, a little weakly. 

“Hey, at least we'll be there together.”


	6. Danny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there everybody! I like to save this story for when I'm in a very particular mood, a mood that today is called "driving a pickup truck for eleven hours with a six year old and a cat." It'll bring out the nihilism in anybody. It occurs to me belatedly that timestamping these chapters might have been useful, but I haven't got the energy to go back and fix that yet. I'll probably do so at some point. For those playing along at home, the attack was around 9:30pm on Thursday night. It is now Saturday morning. Enjoy!

The Press Room was utter chaos that morning, louder and more raucous than Danny had ever seen it in three -four now- administrations. The Secret Service were being incredibly strict with their vetting protocols, so while reporters were being admitted, they were coming in dribs and drabs, often without parts of their equipment, sometimes without their cameras at all while they were still being inspected. Most of the reporters and camera crews had never been in the White House Press Pool, or had left years ago, and there were already cameramen jockeying for positions that their networks had never been assigned. People were wandering the aisles, trying to find the nameplates for their news organizations, seats their deceased colleagues had occupied two days ago. From his position in the front corner of the room, Danny watched as a twenty-year veteran reporter who'd covered wars and disasters all over the globe sat down in his best friend's empty chair and wept. Grief and horror everywhere, but the news was still news, and the President would be speaking in another half-hour. 

He should be doing something, he knew, trying to tame the madness at least. He was the only remaining senior White House correspondent, and the WHCA wasn't exactly in a position right now to be electing a new board and issuing new credentials, let alone exerting any kind of authority. But he couldn't bring himself to move away from his spot against the wall. Two days ago he'd sat in this room and watched CJ joust and deflect and redirect the press corps with her usual blend of tenacity and humor, trying to keep them off Leo McGarry's back after his press conference earlier in the day. Two hours after that, he'd stood in her office and let her kiss him, let her lace her fingers through his, with only the most gentle participation on his part because anything more assertive would've sent her running. He could still taste her on his lips, lipstick and peppermint, and the fact that he would never have another taste, never ask her another question, never watch her expressive mouth form into a sardonic twist or a genuine smile seemed like enough to destroy him from the inside out. 

It was a ridiculous, ludicrous twist of fate that Danny was alive at all, the result of a long, drawn-out series of pranks with Katie Witt that had started with him co-opting her desk for a day and ended with her stealing his seat on the press bus and telling him to find his own way there. It had seemed like a minor victory to stay in the press room and make a chain of paper dolls out of the day's New York Post to decorate Katie's seat with. The newer members of the Press Corps thought it was exciting to cover the State of the Union in person, but this was Danny's third administration and the live feed to the White House Press Office was exactly the same as the feed to the press pen at Capitol Hill. He'd been having a beer in the office with the team from NBC who'd lost the coin toss with the guys from MSNBC when the attack had started and in one minute, the world was forever changed. It had been hours before he'd returned to the press briefing room and remembered the paper doll chain, now a grotesquely cheerful pall covering a dead woman's chair. He'd pulled it off but hadn't been able to bring himself to throw it away, so now it was wadded in the bottom drawer of his desk. 

The first night, there'd been too much to do for him to even think about leaving, even if the building hadn't been locked down till mid-morning. Danny had found himself pulled into the unlikely role of advisor to the administration, consulting with brand-new President Tribbey on his first address to the nation. Lost in shock and grief, there'd been nothing he'd rather have done less, with the sole exception of turning down Margaret and Donna when they came asking for his help with dried tears still on their own faces. After the address, he'd consulted by phone with the newsroom at the Post, though it was less news-gathering or story filing and more trying to figure out which of his friends, colleagues and subjects were still alive. Then there were conversations with the White House Correspondents' Association, a slightly belated (and didn't he get an earful about it) conversation with his family, and finally starting to file news briefings by the middle of the morning. He couldn't write any stories, but he could relay the information he heard around the White House. By evening, a few more reporters had filtered in, mostly ex-White House correspondents who were already vetted. A press conference was scheduled for early Saturday morning, and for once nobody had bitched about the administration trying to throw news out with the trash. Everyone in the country would be watching no matter what time it was. 

He'd chivvied Carol into going home sometime after eleven pm, reminding her that she would be the first face on the podium that morning and she needed to look rested, or at least well made up. They hadn't talked much, hadn't had words for standing in front of CJ's office when she wasn't going to come back to it, but he'd promised he would take Gail with him when he went home. Assistants were not allowed that kind of desk decoration, though god only knew how long it would be before anybody gave a damn about that sort of thing again. After Carol was gone, Danny had ghosted around the West Wing, mostly ignored, wishing for someone to chase him back to the press area just so the world would feel normal again. He'd wound up back at CJ's office somewhere in the small hours, but it was locked and dark and empty. Maybe he'd have gone in otherwise, maybe he'd have been afraid to, but as it was, he stood in front of the closed door for a long time, not doing anything at all. 

Donna had found him there and stood with him awhile, quiet and still. She'd looked like a gentle nudge would be enough to collapse her like a sandcastle, but Danny knew there was steel under those wispy and fragile looks. When he'd met her on the campaign, he'd laughed to himself (and to a few others, really) about the sweet young thing who'd been foolish or unlucky enough to attach herself to Josh Lyman, of all people. He'd known Josh since college, and there was nobody who needed an assistant more, or who scared or annoyed them off faster. Donna, though, had managed Josh like a pro from the very first day, leaving him baffled, intrigued, and far better at the job he was already so very good at. By the end of the campaign, the two had been a finely honed political machine, for all they seemed to be powered entirely by sexual tension and bickering. They walked in rhythm, talked in code, and could flay a stupid idea or a hapless Republican to the bare bones faster than a school of piranha going after an antelope. Josh had been more than half in love with her, even if he'd never admitted it even under Danny's prodding. Seeing Donna walking the halls alone and silent was wrong, but knowing what she'd gone through that morning had made him wonder how she was still standing at all. Just reading the list she'd written had almost sent him to his knees that afternoon. 

Eventually she'd told him he needed to sleep, then taken his hand and pulled him down to the basement, to a corridor Danny was fairly sure he didn't have nearly enough clearance to walk down. There was a room there filled with nothing but old and slightly dusty couches that looked fresh from storage, along with a pile of pillows and blankets. Without saying anything, Donna had given him pillow and blanket, then shown him to a rather faded red plaid model that looked comfortable enough for a nap. He'd sat down and looked up at her to thank her, but she was completely blank, almost lifeless in her mien. Operating on the instinct of a man with sisters, he'd said her name and reached out an arm to pull her down next to him. It was only then that the sandcastle gave way, and she'd all but crawled into his lap, crying on his shoulder in ragged, heartbroken sobs. He'd cried too, wrapping his arms around her and weeping into her hair, both of them crying for their friends, themselves, all the things they couldn't name and would never have. When she'd finally cried herself out, Danny had tucked Donna in on the red couch and taken the green one next to her, because a few hours of fitful sleep were better than none. It had cleared his mind at least, given him the strength to enter this room for a briefing at all. 

Another ten minutes passed, with no increase in order or decrease in ambient noise. Some of the new reporters were practicing standups from the room already, some sounding timid, some sounding angry. Danny couldn't begin to imagine what the question-and-answer session was going to sound like. At ten minutes till start time, he noticed Carol peeking into the room as though thinking about coming in, then quickly ducking out again. A few sharp-eyed reporters noticed her anyway and began calling out frustrated questions at the closing door. Someone called out “Why the hell do they even bring us in here if nobody's going to talk to us? How do we do our jobs?” 

Danny pushed himself off from the wall and walked up the steps to the podium. The lectern was tall, sized for CJ, but with a subtle carpeted step behind it for President Bartlet. Danny didn't need the step but he took it anyway, towering a little as he looked at the crowd. “Hey!” The press corps quieted, turning from their business or their thoughts to watch him. 

“Danny Concannon, Washington Post,” Danny introduced himself briefly. “Most of you are new here, so we haven't met yet. Some of you know me because I've been here for the better part of the past ten years, excluding campaign seasons. This is the White House Press Room, and it's our space in this building, nobody else's. We say who comes and goes, we say who's in and who's out. Anything takes place in this room is fair game for the press. In exchange for that, we have rules of respect that we follow when we're in the building. When a briefer comes in, we quiet down and pay attention. When the President comes in, we all stand up. That one's kind of a gimme,” he admitted. “When you have a question, you wait to be called on. If you have more than two follow-ups, save them for later. No pictures or videos outside scheduled events unless you clear it, and that includes in the gaggle. The nice men and women in black suits will take your cameras away and it will be up to them and your news organizations whether you get them back. Security's going to be even tighter than usual for awhile, and I can't say I don't feel safer because of it.” 

He leaned forward on the lectern, meeting eyes with the people in the crowd. “If you're in this room, you're part of the White House Press Corps now, whether this is your first day or your tenth year. We have a job to do right now, and it's bigger and harder than anything any of us have ever done. This country has just lost more of its government than at any time in history, and people all over are holding their breaths, wondering what's going to happen next. It's our job to be their eyes and ears in the White House. We show them not just their government at work, but the human beings who do that work. The American people need to hear the statement the President is going to make, but they also need to hear about the staffers who haven't been home since Thursday morning because they're making sure the country keeps running. They should see President Tribbey's face, but they should also hear that he's sleeping in a guest bedroom in the White House because a family is in mourning in the Residence.

“In just a couple of minutes,” Danny continued, “a young woman named Carol Fitzpatrick is going to stand up here and you're going to take pictures of her and beam her video image around the world because that's our job and we do it well. She's going to give you a prebriefing because that's her job, and I'm sure she'll do it well. But two days ago, Carol lost her boss, who was also her good friend, as well as dozens of coworkers. Like everyone in this country, she lost the safety and stability underpinning her view of the world. And yet she's still here, in the biggest target in the country, doing her job and a half-dozen others besides, because that's what has to be done. And there are a lot more like her whose names nobody is ever going to know or care about, except that they're putting the country back together. That's a story we need to tell. So pursue the stories, ask the questions that need to be asked. God knows there's a lot of them. But when you do, remember that these are all people, and they're devastated, and they're working very hard. So maybe cut them a little break.” He paused a second. “Oh, and keep food and drink in the press offices, not in here. The janitors hate it.” He descended the podium in a silent room and took his seat in the fourth row. It was almost time to get started.


	7. Day Two, Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's the end of Christmas Fluff week and I did promise you angst for Boxing Day, so here we are again! This chapter is somewhat lighter on the angst than the preceding ones, mainly because I needed to get some plot moving in this sumbitch. For those of you following along who don't want to have to go back and refresh yourselves on OC names, General Larsson is the new Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and Liz, Syl, and Alex are Roger's office staff from Agriculture. Syl is doing the executive secretary job, Liz has stepped in to run communications, and Alex is PA/body man at the moment. Eric is on his way and will be taking the Chief of Staff role. Hope you've all had good holidays and enjoy the new chapter. Feedback is welcome and encouraged!

Sleeping in the White House was still a surreal experience, but Roger had been exhausted enough to get a few hours of sleep anyway. Breakfast and clean clothes had been left at his door, so he ate and dressed, then got one of the Secret Service agents to guide him back to the Oval Office. It was barely dawn, but the corridors were still full of Secret Service agents and all the lights were on. The moment he'd gotten to his desk, Margaret had come in from the secret side door to inform him that General Larsson wanted to brief him in the Sit Room, so he'd let her lead the way and show him how to press his palm against the biometric door sensor. He felt curiously bereft when she stayed outside, but soon forgot the feeling in the general overwhelming intimidation of the Situation Room. He would've thought that after the PEOC, the Sit Room wouldn't be so bad, and yet something about it just screamed life and death decisions. 

General Larsson and several of the other new Joint Chiefs were there, along with briefers from all the intelligence agencies. The wall screens were covered with maps, but somewhat to Roger's surprise, most of them seemed to be focused domestically rather than on world trouble spots. The FBI director started as soon as Roger waved everyone to sit down. “We've got new information on our John Doe. His name is Derrick Lattimer, he was a twenty-four year old grad student in molecular biology at the University of Chicago. Got double-degrees same institution two years ago, the other one in biochemistry. Two living parents, no siblings, no criminal record. Kid grew up in Southern Illinois and apparently barely left the state.” 

“Then what was he doing in DC?” Roger demanded. “How does a graduate student from Illinois wind up conspiring to kill fifteen hundred people, assuming that's what happened?” 

“We're still working on that,” the director offered. “His undergraduate advisor was Dr. Terrence Baylor, one of the top minds in theoretical biochemistry in the world. He was dismissed from the University in 1998 for violations of the ethics and academic integrity policies related to his membership in the Posse Comitatus movement.” 

“Well, shit,” the CIA director muttered. 

“What's the Posse Comitatus movement?” Roger asked. 

“It's a loose affiliation of far-right militia groups and fellow travelers whose general beliefs are that the government is untrustworthy because its institutions have been undermined by sinister forces, usually the Jews,” the FBI director explained. “They believe there is no legitimate governmental authority higher than the county sheriff, and that a sheriff who does not carry out the will of the people should be summarily executed. Adherents routinely evade taxes, avoid obtaining federal ID cards, and try to tie up the courts with ridiculous and specious legal arguments. They were pretty big for awhile back in the late seventies and early eighties, but haven't been making a lot of noise in recent years.” 

“Hell of a coming-out party,” somebody muttered. 

“Have you got this Baylor guy?” Roger demanded. “And anybody else who might have influenced or been influenced by him?” 

“We're working on it now,” the director confirmed. “After being fired, Baylor moved out of Chicago and to a fairly isolated patch of Illinois farmland. His associates at the school say he's got a little cult of personality going with certain students and alumni, but nobody is giving up names yet. We've been keeping the names quiet, we don't want to send the guy underground if he hears we've got a connection.” 

“How much longer?” Larsson asked. 

“Hopefully this afternoon. We're coordinating with local law enforcement and the registrar's office at the school.” 

“So does this mean we're looking at domestic terrorism for this?” Roger demanded. “We're saying that it looks like American citizens did this, not any of our enemies?” The idea was insane, preposterous. How could any American try and destroy their own government? 

“It's too soon to rule anything out,” the CIA director chimed in firmly. “We're still following leads and checking in on the usual suspects. There's been some noise from the extremist Islamic terrorist groups, but nothing credible or substantiated. Still nobody trying to take real credit.” 

“All right, keep working on it. I'm told one of you all is doing a Pentagon briefing after my press conference this morning, good luck with that and try to be very reassuring,” Roger advised wryly. “I want to know as soon as we have anything else on this guy, his mentor, or any of their friends, or if we get any other evidence about what happened. Also,” he addressed the FBI director again, “when can we start clearing bodies for burial?” 

“The investigation is ongoing, sir, we're still doing toxicological tests-” 

“You've got fifteen hundred bodies to work on, surely you don't need all of them for the investigation,” Roger pointed out. “It's been brought up to me already that a number of the victims had religious beliefs that require rapid burial and no autopsy, and I see no reason not to respect that. I want you to do whatever you can to get those bodies released to their families ASAP. Let's not cause any more pain that we have to. Thanks, guys.” Everyone stood as he left, but somehow it didn't bother Roger the same way as when other people did it. These guys actually seemed to enjoy it, in a way. 

Margaret was waiting for him outside, shepherding him back to the Oval Office while rapidly delivering a briefing on all that had gone on in the White House during his too-brief slumber. Preliminary vetting was complete on Eric Rocio, enough that the Secret Service were convinced that he wasn't some kind of madman out to kill them all. Normal vetting would go considerably deeper, but at this point nobody was that concerned about who the President appointed as his new chief of staff. A phone census had confirmed the count of eight living senators and twenty-two congressmen, as well as the whereabouts of Supreme Court nominee Roberto Mendoza, all of those notables would be heading to DC as soon as the travel situation allowed. Operations had compiled all the contingency (hit by a bus just sounded morbid in context) lists from the senior staffers and were creating brief dossiers for all the surviving candidates for the President's review. And of course the press briefing room was rapidly filling with reporters, all waiting for him to throw himself at their dubious mercy. Liz Sumner was taking charge of Communications from the bullpen, and would be assisting with the press conference.

Carol was waiting for him at the Oval, looking slightly intimidated by her surroundings in a way that Roger found very relatable. She had her makeup kit with her again and painted most of the shadows out of his face while she, Liz and Margaret went over dozens of possible questions and answers with him. Up close, it was easier to tell that she was wearing even more makeup than he was, and though her clothes were neat and pressed, he wondered how long it had been since she'd gotten any sleep. The assistants here were ridiculous, maniacal in their loyalty, self-destructive in their commitment. If he didn't need them so badly, he'd see about getting the lot of them barred from the building long enough to get some actual rest. But he knew that Carol was running the press office and Donna the Operations staff, and Margaret's matter-of-fact omnipresence was probably the only thing keeping him from losing his mind. He had no choice but to take advantage of their dedication until the situation stabilized or one or more of them simply dropped in their tracks. 

The press conference itself was hell, as he'd expected it to be. The press corps themselves were surprisingly respectful, listening attentively to Carol, then allowing him to get through his whole prepared statement with no interruptions except the constant click of camera shutters like the song of strange insects. The words on the teleprompter were easy to read, an uncomplicated rhythm that went into his eyes and out his mouth while leaving little chance for mistake or misspeaking. They were words of comfort and courage, strong words to reassure a fearful country, words that should be spoken by a statesman Roger really didn't feel himself to be right now. Why was he talking about protecting America when it looked like Americans might have done this horrifying thing? How did anyone defend against a cancer growing inside? But they weren't sure, and people were afraid, and the generic words cost very little to say. 

The questions started immediately, thick and fast. Carol stood next to the podium, just out of camera range, and whispered names to him from a seating chart so he could call on people. The first questions were predictable, were there any suspects, was it Russia or China, was it Islamic terrorists, was there going to be a military response? Roger patiently repeated that he couldn't give any information on that right now while they were investigating every lead, and there would be a briefing later from the Pentagon with more specific information. Someone asked how Zoey Bartlet was doing, Roger replied that she was healthy but grieving, and thankful for all the messages of condolence being poured out. Lots of questions about Congress, about the Supreme Court, about appointing a vice president as quickly as possible. Roger assured everyone that the government succession plan was in motion and that new Senators were being appointed already, and special elections would soon be announced to refill the ranks of Congress. Only then would he be able to begin appointing a vice president and cabinet members, but until that time, the acting cabinet secretaries were temporarily in the line of succession. There was no threat of ambiguity in the succession, he informed everyone firmly, and they all pretended to believe it. Anything else was unthinkable. 

The second-to-last question was from Danny Concannon, still in the clothes he'd been wearing yesterday and looking incredibly scruffy. “How soon will you begin appointing new White House staffers? I can't imagine it's easy doing all that needs to be done with so many vacant seats.” His voice was totally professional, his face a different story altogether. 

“Well Danny, I can tell you that every person working in this building has gone far above and beyond anything I could reasonably expect of them even in this hour of great need,” Roger replied. “These are talented and dedicated people, determined to see that all this very necessary work gets done. But you're right that there are empty spots that need filling as soon as possible. I have brought over certain members of my staff from the Department of Agriculture to fill some of those vacancies, and will begin hiring others as soon as possible.” 

The very last question was from the Reuters chair, who Carol pointed out with a little shrug to indicate an unknown quantity. The question was one he'd expected, but rather hoped not to get. “Mr. President, your background is in education and agricultural subsidies. You've said in interviews that you entered politics in order to “do something about school lunch programs.” Do you plan on stepping down in favor of a more qualified candidate as soon as the immediate situation is resolved?” 

“That's a good question,” he acknowledged, “and I'm sure there are other people who are wondering it as well. But the fact of the matter is, there are no better-qualified candidates, Constitutionally speaking, and pragmatically speaking as well. We are already at an all-hands-on-deck situation. Every senator is needed in the Senate. Every Congressman is needed in congress. We need all our remaining political infrastructure at work, as well as or better than it has ever worked before. If I were to attempt to appoint a successor and then step down, I would be not only bucking constitutional mandate, but pulling someone else away from their vital duty to this country. I haven't got the experience of Jed Bartlet, who was an incredible man and an exceptional leader, but I have undertaken to fulfill the role I accepted when President Bartlet asked me to take the designated survivor position, and I will do so. I have excellent advisors and staff, as well as years of experience of my own in government. I'm going to be the very best president I can be, for all Americans. Thank you.” He stepped down before anybody could call out more follow-ups. 

“That was good, Roge- sir,” Liz told him, falling into step with him as soon as he left the briefing room. “Danny Concannon's stealing our thunder in early soundbytes, but that'll pass quickly. We need to work on a more solid answer about your government experience, that question is definitely going to come up again as soon as we start to have more of a government-thing going again.” 

“Danny?” Carol asked from just behind them. “What about Danny?” 

“He went up on the podium about fifteen minutes before the conference and gave the press corps a pep talk. Turns out there were cameras rolling and it went out live. Your boy's quite a speaker for a print journalist, and he gave you a nice shout-out.” Liz's smile was only a little rueful. “I'm sure you'll catch it very soon.” 

“Well, that sounds like fun,” Carol murmured. “Bet Danny will be happy about it.” She broke off towards the press office and Alex fell into step in her place, carrying a large travel mug. 

“Midmorning pick-me-up,” he said cheerfully, offering it to Roger. “I finally figured out how to work the machine in Syl's office.” 

“I'm pretty sure that's your office too,” Liz pointed out. 

“Try telling Syl that,” Alex shot back. “I got in touch with the kitchen staff in the Residence, so I'm pretty sure there'll be food at lunchtime, good news there. The rest of your clothes are also up in your new bedroom. Third floor, huh? I'd have gone for the Lincoln-” 

“Alex, please,” Roger interjected. “Just leave it alone.” Liz backed him up with a death glare for the PA, and Alex subsided quickly. “Thanks for dealing with my clothes. I'm going to need you to go to Lily Mays in the East Wing and find out what her staffing situation is like; who she's got working for her and what kind of experience they have. Get that information to Donna in Operations and tell her to put it in the mix for restaffing.” 

“Yessir,” Alex said quickly, bounding off. Roger thought he'd eventually reach the East Wing going that way, but it might take a little while. Not that he himself was all that sure of the way. He took the lid off the coffee for faster consumption as they arrived back at the big office, where Syl had another list of calls waiting for him to handle and Margaret had another stack of papers. All Roger actually wanted to do was lay down in a dark room with a pillow over his head for a few minutes, but that looked unlikely to happen any time soon. There was a country to run.


	8. Margaret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! See, didn't I promise you that it wasn't goodbye forever? :) I have been enjoying my time off this past couple days, starting my kid's homeschooling, organizing the kitchen, making a couple gallons of soup and an entire pulled pork. Very productive! But I've been writing a little too, gotta keep my hand in! Plus, I've owed an update here for the past week. For those of you keeping score at home, this chapter takes place on the second full day after the State of the Union. A lot of things have happened in less than 48 hours! Hope you enjoy!

Margaret's computer chimed softly, pulling her from a moment's unfocused stupor. Ten-forty-five in the morning, time to place Leo's lunch order. She closed the message with a hotkey but didn't delete the alarm itself. It would repeat again tomorrow with the same message, and every weekday after that until somebody told it to stop, that nobody needed to place Leo's lunch order ever anymore. The noise was at least enough to get her moving again. Rising from her desk, she made her way through the hallways to the Operations bullpen, a tightly controlled whirlwind of chaos where the televisions were only now starting to come on again. Donna's desk was covered with files and untenanted, but Margaret was surprised to see the door to Josh's office open for the first time in two days. 

She walked closer to the open door and heard the one-sided conversation coming from it. “...yes, I just talked with Mike Casper, you know he's taking it very personally, he's doing everything he can. The FBI is going to release... yes, I know. Yes.” 

Margaret peeked in the door and saw Donna digging through the desk drawers, cordless phone pressed to her ear. Her face was bloodless and white, but her voice was calm. “There are FBI agents in the holding building at all times, I... I don't know how much that helps, but somebody is always there. I've made the flight arrangements for you for tomorrow, that's the earliest they're releasing any... anyone. You can bring him home that same day. If you let me know the name of your funeral home- okay. Okay, yeah, I can do that.” She was quiet for a few moments, listening to the phone. Margaret didn't interrupt. “Yeah,” Donna finally said, her voice thick. “I think he would like that. It sounds beautiful.” Another pause. “Oh Hannah, I don't know if I can, there's so much-” She broke off, listened, sighed silently as her entire body seemed to collapse in on itself a little. “Yes, of course. I'll be there if there's any possible way. I'm so, so sorry... yes. Thank you. You too, take care. I'll talk to you tomorrow.” 

Donna hung up the phone and sat down at the desk, resting her elbows on the wood and putting her head in her hands as she took a shuddering breath. Margaret gave her another moment, then knocked lightly. “Do you need a minute?” 

The noise obviously startled Donna, who jumped slightly as she looked up, but she shook her head. “It's not going to change anything. You need the lists?” 

Margaret nodded. “I can stall for another hour or two if you need some extra time.” 

“No, they're done,” Donna replied. “Once we weeded out everyone who didn't make it, there were only about twenty names, total. They're on my desk, you just have to take them in. I've put the annotations in the front of each one. Carol's got some calls in still on the press secretary candidates, but I noted down what we're still waiting on there.” 

“Was that Mrs. Lyman?” Margaret guessed, taking an uncertain step onto unstable footing. 

“Yeah.” Donna stared down at the desk. “The FBI will be releasing the first bodies tomorrow, I'm helping her make the arrangements. She wants a funeral in Connecticut, a burial in the family plot. She wants me to come to the funeral.” 

“Talk to the president,” Margaret encouraged. “I'm sure you'll be allowed.” 

“That's not actually what I'm worried about,” Donna admitted quietly. “But thanks.” She rose from the desk and walked out of the office, whatever she'd been looking for apparently forgotten for the moment. “I hadn't really even thought about it yet, how spread out everything is going to be,” she murmured. “Connecticut, Boston, California, New York, Ohio... nobody can go everywhere.” 

 

“Maybe we should have a memorial service here,” Margaret offered. “In a few days, when there's time to breathe. People could probably use it.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” Donna agreed, already sounding abstracted about it as her brain clicked back into work mode. “Here's the files. Any new names to vet?” 

“Not yet, but I'll let you know,” Margaret promised. She gathered up the pile of folders and carried them back to her office, automatically dodging traffic as she paged through them. The vetting was hasty but methodical, the annotations crisp and easy to understand. Good work for only a few hours notice. She walked through Leo's office, into the short corridor that separated his office from the Oval. With a brief knock, she opened the door and went in. It felt strange and slightly transgressive, but President Tribbey didn't tolerate much formality and she might as well use the fact to her advantage. 

The president was sitting at his desk, reading through a briefing book about foreign policy, judging by the color of the cover. There was a cart full of similar binders next to the desk, all of which he was going to need to read and absorb, or have someone else read and synthesize for him. Margaret knew that drill well; she'd had two weeks of late nights doing the same thing with Leo at the beginning of the term. Hopefully the president's new chief of staff was a quick reader. President Tribbey looked up when she came in. “Hi Margaret, what have you got for me?” 

“Operations sent over the redacted lists of alternative staff nominations,” she told him, hefting the pile a little bit. “They've done preliminary vetting on all the senior staff positions to figure out which candidates are still, ah, available and what they're doing now. I know you already have a Chief of Staff and a Director of Communications picked out, but Donna vetted from those lists anyway because there are no surviving candidates on Josh Lyman's list for DCOS and Sam Seaborn's list for Deputy DCOM was pretty small as well.” 

“Right, good,” President Tribbey agreed with a small cough. “Have you looked them over? Any opinions?” 

“I know Angela Blake, sir,” Margaret told him. “Leo worked with her as Labor Secretary, she was Deputy Chief of Staff for Policy under President Newman. She's very good, very experienced. Leo had her flagged at the top of his list under Josh. If you can bring her on as Deputy Chief of Staff, she'll do a good job for you.” 

“Can you get her in for an interview?” he asked. Margaret nodded. “Okay, as soon as possible for that. Anybody else?” 

“David Rosen's on the list for Deputy DCOM,” Margaret told him, keeping her voice neutral. “He looks good on paper, we vetted him two years ago, but he'll probably be a waste of your time.” 

“Why's that?” President Tribbey asked, sounding curious. Margaret sighed inside, she hadn't meant to pique his curiosity. Leo was more the sort that when told someone was going to waste his time, he believed it. 

“He was President Bartlet's initial pick for director of communications, but he turned down the position,” Margaret explained. “I suspect he probably won't want to take the Deputy spot. Also, Bonnie and Ginger hate him personally, which would make for an even rockier transition than it's already going to be.” President Tribbey raised an eyebrow silently inviting her to go on. She shrugged. “David worked with us on the general election campaign. He and Toby butted heads on everything, to the point where David tried to get him fired. Bonnie and Ginger are loyal to Toby and Sam, even now. Maybe especially now,” she amended, clasping her hands together and surreptitiously tapping the acupressure points on the outside of her wrist and in the webbing of her thumb. She couldn't cry every time she thought about somebody who'd died; she couldn't cry any time she thought about somebody who'd died. The tapping helped a little. 

“We'll put him on the bottom of the list then,” President Tribbey said with a small smile. “I've already figured out that the assistants aren't people to annoy lightly. Have we heard anything new from the Press Office?” 

“Carol can brief you on the morning wires whenever you're ready. Liz would like a moment of your time after you get the briefing to discuss getting a poll in the field on national morale,” Margaret reported neutrally. Ever so neutrally, as though putting a poll in the field while the president and all his staff were dead on slabs were just the normal course of business. “And we have Secret Service confirmation that Eric Rocio should be touching down at National at 2:15. He'll be met by a security detail.” 

The president had begun rubbing his temples at the talk of polls, but he looked up at that. “Is that normal procedure?” 

“I think they're rewriting the book on normal procedure right about now, sir,” Margaret pointed out. “I had an agent follow me home last night, and I'm a secretary.” It had been a surreal experience, getting intercepted in the front lobby, then driven home in a plain black sedan by an agent who was not particularly interested in explaining why. It had also delayed her return to the White House by almost five hours, since the agent had not been impressed by the splitting of hairs she and Donna had done about the meaning of morning. 

“Yeah, about that,” President Tribbey told her, looking a little abashed. “I had a talk with Simon Donovan about protecting our remaining sources of institutional memory around here. If you or Donna Moss were to get hit by a bus at this point, I'm relatively sure the government would fall apart before we had a chance to fix it. So until the situation stabilizes, you're going to have some protection on you when you leave the building. Given the way both of you have been acting, it shouldn't stretch the agency too much,” he added dryly. Margaret just blinked at him. “Also, about the secretary thing,” he continued, seeming to think it wise to keep going while he'd already stunned her, “I'm going to need you to get Eric up to speed once he gets here, and help him get a handle on everything that goes on around here.” 

“Of course, sir,” Margaret murmured. She'd make her peace with it somehow, she'd figure out how to function with someone else sitting at Leo's desk. There really weren't any other options. Leo would never forgive her if she quit now because she couldn't do the job without him. She'd held his office together for him before, this was just one more time, one time where he wouldn't be coming back from Sierra Tucson... She tapped her fingertips against her wrist a little more firmly. 

“Now in order to do that I understand you'll need to be sitting at your desk a lot of the time,” President Tribbey continued, looking thoughtful. “But I also want you to be sitting in on my staffing meetings whenever you're available, and coming to staff meetings when we start actually having some. I guess the position is probably called Special Advisor to the President or something like that. I want to keep you on hand to give me advice and tell me things the way you have been for the past couple of days. I trust Syl and Alex to do my secretarial and runaround work, but neither of them can do that for me. I know this will mean extra work for you. Can you do it?” 

Margaret knew she was staring now, but she couldn't exactly help it. At least she knew what to say, the words were there on her lips automatically. “I serve at the pleasure of the President, sir.” 

He took a deep breath. “Okay, good. I'm probably going to have to get used to hearing that, aren't I.” 

“I imagine so,” she agreed. “You've got to swear in all your senior staffers, at the very least. You can wait and do it all at one time, or have it done one by one as you hire them. There's a certificate and a pen, the presidential seal and such.” 

“Right, well, that'll keep,” he decided. “Let me know when I can talk to Angela Blake, and I'll take a look at this staff list. Thanks, Margaret.” 

“Thank you, Mr. President.” Margaret backed out the chief of staff's door and went to her desk to sit down for a minute. She wasn't altogether certain what a Special Advisor did, aside from what the president had just laid out, but even the title was daunting. Well, she'd just take that job as it came, and for now she had more than enough to do with the job she'd already been working on. The new chief of staff would need his own pile of binders, and a list of his thousand new subordinates with their organizational hierarchies, and annotated copies of the president's schedule, as soon as the president was keeping a proper schedule again. And at some point, he would probably need dinner, too. Margaret checked her computer alarm to be sure it would ring at five-thirty, the time when she always sent in Leo's dinner order. It was good enough for Leo, surely it would be good enough for the new guy.


	9. Eric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So normally I don't post two chapters in a row for the same story, but this one is by special request of my parents, who wanted another chapter to read on their cross-country drive today. I guess it just goes to show that the best way to get a special prompt out of me is to give birth to me and/or raise me for my entire life. Hey Mom and Dad, hope you enjoy!

Eric Rocio wasn't a fanciful man by nature, and that was just as well. If he were, he'd be even more convinced that the events of the past three days were some kind of bizarre stress dream caused by too many suspense novels and too much coffee. The whole country was still in a sort of suspended, terrified shock after what had happened to the President and the Congress, and trying to get a flight into DC at all had required governmental string-pulling that he hadn't questioned too hard. Martial law was still in force, and for now almost nobody was even complaining about it. If it went on too much longer that would probably change, but right now it was as though everyone were holding a collective breath, waiting to see if the ship of state could right itself. And at the helm of that ship was his oldest friend, one who'd called on Eric to come and help. 

Really, the fact that Roger was president now didn't sink in until Eric arrived at National Airport. He'd watched both press conferences, obviously, and had been following the news closely. Nobody knew what to make of the new President, leader of the free world by default and the luck of the draw. He looked sober and serious behind the presidential podium, reading lines off a teleprompter in a way that wasn't bad enough to be frightening or good enough to be memorable. The question and answer period was a little better, started to let some personality shine through, but introducing the man to the country would take time. He looked almost like a stranger on TV, an older and more serious man than the Roger he knew. But standing here at the gate in a nearly empty airport, being met by a trio of dark-suited agents with earpieces and weapons, Eric began to get a glimmer of exactly what things were going to be like from here on out. 

“Mr. Rocio?” the lead agent asked. 

“Yes, that's me,” Eric confirmed, as though there was any real doubt. 

“My name is Agent Davis, this is Agent O'Connor and Agent James. We'll be escorting you to the White House. Do you have luggage?” 

“Two suitcases,” Eric answered, “I just need to-” 

Davis nodded to James, who trotted off toward the baggage claim before Eric could finish. “They'll be delivered to you. We need to go.” Eric never would've considered himself a docile person, but something about these people just seemed to preclude arguing with them. Not that he had any real reason to, anyway. They were taking him where he was supposed to go. The ride to the White House was silent, through streets much less trafficked than Eric had seen on previous visits to Washington. No tourists, he supposed, that would make a big difference. There was no traffic at all within about four blocks of the White House; all the streets were blockaded and manned by military officers. Their car was checked and allowed through, first at the blockade, then at the White House gate, and once more before being allowed to approach the building itself. Nobody was taking any chances right now. 

The agents brought him to a lobby with a few pillars, a small seating area, and a very prominent Presidential Seal on the wall. He signed in at the desk and was given a lanyard and badge with a large red A on it that he hoped wasn't a literary allusion. No sooner had he draped it around his neck than a red-haired woman in a smart blue twinset and skirt was approaching him, her heels echoing against the marble floor. “Mr. Rocio?” she asked. “I'm Margaret Hooper, Senior Assistant to the Chief of Staff and Special Advisor to the President. President Tribbey has asked me to bring you to the Oval Office right away. Is that your bag?” She pointed to his carry-on, and when he nodded, she took the handle herself and began pulling it very briskly through the lobby and into a warren of offices and cubicles. 

Eric had little choice but to follow her, though he supposed that if he hadn't, she eventually would've doubled back to come get him. The habitual pace of travel in the White House appeared to be just short of a jog, to judge by the people they passed in the maze. Margaret must've noticed him looking around. “Don't bother trying to find your way just yet,” she advised. “It'll only confuse you, and as Chief of Staff, the people you need to meet with will come to you. I'll make sure you get a little map to get you to your office and back, or you can just commandeer an intern.” 

“Thanks,” Eric managed. “Do people always walk this fast, or is it because of the situation?” 

Margaret looked around as though she hadn't noticed anything amiss. “It's normal,” she assured him. “If people actually start running, you should probably get nervous. Here we are.” She led the way into a pass-through office area, well-lit even on a dreary January day, with two desks sitting opposite one another. Sylvia Rosenthal was sitting at one of the desks, busily scribbling into a very large datebook. 

It was nice to finally see a familiar face, even if it belonged to one of the top ten contenders for Most Likely to Punch Eric in the Mouth. “Hey Syl,” he offered with a half smile. “Keeping you busy?” 

Sylvia's head jerked up from her work as she focused on the new arrival. “Eric!” she yelped, rising and racing around the desk. “Thank god you're here.” Much to his surprise, she grabbed him around the middle and hugged him, pressing her face against his shoulder. “Everything is all screwed up!” She was shaking, he realized, not crying, just a fine trembling in her arms. 

He hugged her back, a little cautiously. “Hey now Syl, that's all right. We'll get everything figured out. It looks like you're getting things organized already, that's a good start.” 

She laughed, but it was weak and watery. “It's like bailing out the Titanic with a teacup,” she admitted. “And I feel like an intruder, like it's not really my desk. It's just... I'm still waiting to wake up.” 

“I know the feeling,” he assured her quietly, running a quick and reassuring hand over her auburn hair. “Just do your best, and the rest will fall into place. Can I go in?” 

“Oh, um...” Sylvia pulled away and twisted around to get a look at the planner. “Yeah, he's not doing anything right now. I mean, he's doing things, obviously, he's got fifty binders in there that he needs to read, plus people going in and out all the time to talk to him, and there's probably going to be another security briefing any minute now, but right now there's nobody in there with him and he's been waiting for you to get here for hours so I'm sure he'd want you to go in right away-” 

“Sylvia!” Eric interrupted sharply. He'd worked with Syl before, been her boss for a year when he'd been helping Roger get set up at the Department of Food and Agriculture. She was an excellent manager, efficient and organized, but when she did begin to spiral, things could go downhill fast. “Breathe,” he reminded her. “Get a couple good deep breaths there, thatta girl.” He patted her on the shoulder. 

Sylvia took the advice, sucking in a breath, then taking a more normal one. “I'm okay,” she told him, resting her fingertips against the top of her desk. “Just having a moment there.” She smiled a little bit shakily. “Go on in, he'll be happy to see you.” 

Margaret, who had been watching the entire interaction with detached, silent interest, opened the door for him. “Mister President, Eric Rocio is here,” she announced without walking in. Instead, she stepped back to allow Eric through the door, then shut it behind him. Suddenly Eric was standing in the Oval Office, a room he'd only seen on television and never really expected to see in real life. It was a little smaller than he'd imagined, though the ceilings were much higher. Secret Service agents were posted just outside the glass patio doors, and there was the Resolute Desk, Kennedy's desk, with the presidential seal spread on blue carpet in front of it. In the middle of all of it was Roger Tribbey, Eric's friend of almost three decades, his old college roommate, the guy whose unruly hair and voracious appetite in college had earned him the nickname Tribble. The same guy who'd thrown up the morning of his own wedding because he was so nervous, the guy who'd never wanted to be a politician but was too pissed off about the crap his students were getting fed at lunch to not do something. In his wrinkled suit with his thinning hair slightly disordered, Roger didn't look much different from the man who'd come to him ten years ago and asked him to help him put a staff together to be California's Secretary of Food and Agriculture. But everything else was so very, very changed. 

Roger stood up and came around his desk, not quite as quickly as Sylvia had, but at a brisk pace. “Eric, you finally made it!” He clasped Eric's hand and then gave him a hug. “I hear getting to the building is even harder than it used to be.” 

Eric barked out a laugh. “Finally?” he asked. “You called me fourteen hours ago and told me to pack up my life. You should've heard my managing partner this morning.” In truth, it hadn't been as bad as he'd feared; when the president called on you, especially in circumstances like this, you went. 

“Was it really fourteen hours?” Roger blinked. “Seems like longer. Things move pretty fast around here. I've already lost all concept of day and night. There's no clock in here, and no computer, either. Syl or Margaret just send people my way and I talk to them and they go away.” He shook his head ruefully and waved Eric to one of the candy-striped couches before sitting down himself “You met Margaret, right?” 

“The redhead out front?” Eric asked, taking a seat. “Yeah, for about thirty seconds while we were power-walking. She seems... efficient.” 

“You're not wrong about that,” Roger told him. “She was Leo McGarry's assistant, she's going to be getting you up to speed. Right now she's pretty much running the place, along with Donna Moss in Operations and a cadre of senior assistants who are holding it together with twine and chewing gum.” 

“I heard a little about a woman named Carol from that reporter who hijacked your press conference,” Eric commented. 

“Liz's new best friend,” Roger confirmed. “She's running the press office while Liz tries to get the Communications Department into some kind of order.” He ran a hand over his hair. “I admire the loyalty President Bartlet inspired in his staff, but from this perspective it's really unfortunate that not only did every departmental head attend that speech, every single deputy did as well. Our succession plan reads uncomfortably like an in memoriam list. I've got one candidate coming in to interview for your deputy, Liz in communications with no deputy, and a couple of candidates for press secretary that nobody knows much about. Plus I need to make eight judicial appointments and get them confirmed by a nonexistent Senate, not to mention put together an entire cabinet before the press lose their collective minds over the idea that nobody's in line to be President if something happens to me.” 

Eric sat back and raised his eyebrows. “It sounds like your plate is awfully full, Mr. President.” 

Roger grimaced. “Eric, please.” 

“You've got to admit, the circumstances...” Eric waved a hand at the office around them. “And you know I have to call you that in public anyway.” 

“Fine, but not when it's just the two of us,” Roger insisted. “I barely feel human right now as it is.” 

“Okay, Tribble,” Eric offered, one side of his mouth pulling up in a grin.

Roger blinked, then actually burst out laughing. “That might be going a little too far in the other direction.” 

“I'll figure it out eventually,” Eric assured him with a smirk. “But honestly, don't you think you need a Chief of Staff who knows a lot more about Washington? Being Chief of Staff in your Food and Ag office was one thing, but this is a much bigger deal.” 

“Trust me, the scope of this deal hasn't escaped my notice,” Roger informed him wryly. “But what's the point of getting a Washington insider, assuming I can find one still alive and willing to work? The entire government's been upended, and whatever happens from here on out, the rules are going to be very different. I need somebody who can roll with that, someone I trust implicitly who can adapt to new situations and give me the kind of advice and backup I'm going to need. And who can read all these books faster than I can.” He waved an arm at the frankly intimidating cart of binders standing next to the desk. 

Eric winced. “You're not exactly upselling the job, Roger.” 

Roger shrugged. “It's got nothing to recommend it,” he admitted freely. “This place is a disaster. Half the people here don't know if they're coming or going, and the ones who do know are skidding the thin edge of exhaustion just trying to put up some road signs. I haven't the foggiest notion what you'll get paid, but I'm sure it's nothing compared to what you earned in New York, and the stress is going to be unbelievable. There'll be press scrutiny and political enemies out to get us. I can't even guarantee your physical safety until we catch whoever did this.”

He paused a moment, letting it all sink in. “I don't want this job either, but somebody's got to save the world. The women here, these assistants who are running the place, they're going to knock you off your feet with their tenacity and loyalty and just plain smarts. I can't let them down, and I need your help.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment, then Eric sighed. “I guess you better give me a pile of those books. You were always hopeless at speed reading.” 

“Hey, I'm thorough!” Roger protested, but he was grinning. “You miss the nuances if you read too fast.” 

“Yeah, but at least you get the broad strokes.” Eric pointed out. “So where do I start?” 

“I'm going to put you in Margaret's capable hands for that,” Roger told him. “She'll get you going with the national security updates and introduce you to the rest of the staff. I want you sitting in on security briefings from now on. We've got a suspect they're trying to take down this afternoon, should be any minute now. However that turns out, you'll need to work with Liz to help put together our response.” 

Eric did his very best not to respond to that, but knew instantly that he'd failed. “All right, I can do that,” he offered anyway. 

Roger raised an eyebrow. “Is this going to be a problem?” he asked mildly. 

“Nope, no problem,” Eric assured him, voice just a little tight. “It's all water under the bridge, at least from my perspective. Though I don't know if she feels the same way....” 

That earned him a quelling look from the President. “You'll both be too busy enough to get in too much trouble,” he told Eric, “but just try not to be a jerk, all right?” 

It was on the tip of Eric's tongue to protest such a gross mischaracterization of himself, but he realized it would be a waste of time. He rarely bothered to defend his own actions, much less when they were indefensible in the first place. “I'll be good,” he promised. 

“All right then.” Roger stood up and Eric stood as well, realizing as he did that he'd better get a primer from somebody on Presidential etiquette. Roger would hate it, but nobody was going to take him seriously without at least some of the trappings of office. Walking over to a door Eric hadn't even noticed, Roget pushed it open, revealing a small corridor and another office. “This is yours,” he explained. “You get to come in without having to brave Syl's office, but it also means I can yell for you whenever I want.” 

Margaret appeared in the open doorway, as alert and efficient as ever. “Mr. President, General Larsson is asking for you in the Sit Room.” 

Roger's face wenr still as he swallowed hard. “All right then. Let's see what we're dealing with.” Jerking his head to indicate Eric should come along, he followed Margaret back into the maze of the West Wing.


	10. Day Two, Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody! Sorry it's been such a long time, real life came down like a ton of bricks in January, and I've barely had time to put fingers to keyboard. Two weeks of flu for me and my kid, the advent of homeschooling, and lots of IRL political activism taking up time that used to be devoted to much nicer fictional politics! (I also pulled a muscle protesting and was hobbling around on a cane for a week, exciting!) But I have this chapter done now, and two or three other partial stories or chapters that I'm going to be buckling down on. Thank you all for your patience and encouragement; any feedback you want to send will be gratefully enjoyed!

The Situation Room was an imposing room at the best of times, but Roger found it somewhat less intimidating after his administration's precipitous start down in the PEOC. After spending the longest night of his life in that high-tech concrete bunker, only being in the Situation Room was nearly reassuring. It helped to have Eric sitting next to him, even looking a little confused and a lot overwhelmed to the experienced eye. Nothing threw Eric for very long, though, and Roger suspected that his new Chief of Staff would be off and running by the time they had another one of these. “So what's the situation?” he asked the assembled military personnel, then struggled not to wince at his own unintentional pun. Nobody seemed to catch it except Eric, who gave him a pained look. 

The FBI director began the briefing. “Approximately one hour ago we began an investigatory action on the farmhouse owned by Dr. Terrence Baylor. We had a federal warrant to investigate and secure any possible evidence, but Baylor had barricaded himself and seven of his associates inside the building. Believing time was of the essence, the commander on site ordered the door broken down. At that point, Baylor detonated a canister of what we believe is the same substance used in the attack on the Capitol building. All the agents involved in the action were wearing protective gear, but Baylor and his associates were all dead within ninety seconds, with the same pathology we observed in the attack Wednesday night. 

“My god,” Roger murmured. “So the one who actually placed the canisters died in the attack, and now his mentor and any of the other people who could tell us anything are gone too?” 

“We'd expected there might be resistance, including another gas attack, but we hadn't thought Baylor would be ready to take himself and his followers out,” the director admitted, somewhat uncomfortably. 

“Why the hell not?” General Larsson demanded. “The kid who actually placed the canisters stayed and died in the Rotunda, didn't he? These people obviously aren't skittish about dying for what they believe.” 

“Or he was just slow in getting out,” the FBI director retorted. .”We weren't expecting to find Baylor there at all, our intelligence said he should've gone into the wind as soon as the attack went off. We were expecting to find some of his people and hopefully some leads on where his lab might be. He pulled off a massively successful attack against the government, one step short of complete anarchy. Hunkering down and committing suicide is insane!” 

“And you didn't expect something insane from a madman?” Larsson parried back.

Roger broke in before the exchange could grow any more heated. “Hindsight is 20/20, gentlemen, and we're all working way off the established playbook. I'm just happy that none of our guys got hurt. Did they find anything at the farmhouse?” 

“Baylor left a suicide note,” Calvin Traeger broke in for the first time. Roger hadn't seen much of him since the night in the bunker, but he was acting head of the NSC until Roger appointed somebody new. “It's five pages long and reads like a manifesto, we're still having it analyzed. The gist is that the federal government is illegitimate, bloated, paralyzed, unlawful, etcetera. The only cure was to root out the 'entrenched degeneracy in root and branch.' He seems certain that the destruction of so much of the federal government will motivate like-minded men of action to follow his lead, even though he himself wouldn't be there to witness it.” 

“Dying like a martyr spurs on the movement,” Eric surmised. 

“Basically, yeah,” Calvin nodded. 

“Is he right?” Roger asked. 

Calvin shrugged and looked to the FBI director, who looked like he was trying to avoid doing the same thing. “It's impossible to say at this point. The information we have on Baylor suggests he was something of a loner in terms of associating with other Posse Comitatus groups, which limits his influence. But he may have had lines of communication to them, some way of letting them in on what he was going to do.” 

“What about the gas?” Roger pressed. “Was Baylor the source?” 

“He claims responsibility in the note,” Calvin replied. “He included specifics of the deployment scheme that match what we already know, but he doesn't say whether he distributed it to anybody else. Right now we think it must've been a closely guarded secret, or we'd have caught wind of something before now, but that doesn't mean it's going to stay that way. We need to find the lab and see if we can reverse engineer the agent and find a way to counter it. Until we do, well, I don't think I need to explain the incredibly vulnerable position we are in.” 

“All right,” Roger nodded. “Find that lab, and find out who Baylor and his people have been talking to. And don't, under any circumstances, let that letter get out if it hasn't already. We don't want any crazies getting energized by this.” 

General Larsson nodded. “We'd like to see more intelligence resources devoted to the militia groups in general, to keep a closer eye on their activities than we have been. It's obviously a serious weak point in our national security.” 

“QED,” Eric supplied drily. “Can you do that? Privacy laws, the actual posse comitatus act...” 

“To a certain extent,” Larsson admitted. “We're going to need to look at a series of new laws to allow us to better monitor terror threats. Our current models of data privacy are clearly unsustainable. Until the new Congress is sworn in, you can authorize activities by executive order...” 

“I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet,” Roger put in, trying not to sound as uneasy as he felt. “Have the deputy attorney general work with the White House Counsel... is that still Mitch McKay?” 

“No sir, he left last year. It's Lionel Tribbey now,” Calvin supplied, half a question in his voice. 

“Huh,” Roger replied. “No relation, I think. Have them work together to draft something, but I'm not prepared to sign anything without at least talking to the Senators and Congressmen we've got. Keep me updated on what you find.” 

There was a chorus of murmured assent. “One more thing, sir,” Larsson put in. “We've received word from the British Ambassador, Lord John Marbury, that he's arrived in India for his conversation with the Prime Minister. India is very concerned that the United States keep the promises made by President Bartlet earlier this week.” 

Roger blinked. “What did we promise them?” he asked, a hint of trepidation leaking through. 

“Infrastructure support for their technology industry, starting in three months time,” Larsson reported. “The pres- President Bartlet was concerned that it not look as though we were buying India's retreat from the standoff with Pakistan.” 

“Wasn't that what we were doing?” Eric asked. 

“Yes,” Larsson replied flatly.

“Ah, politics.” Eric smiled faintly. “Does Marbury think that the deal will hold, even with everything that's happened?” 

“India wants the carrot,” one of the other chiefs put in, Roger was pretty sure it was the Army Chief of Staff. He really needed to learn these guys' names. “And so far nobody's quite ready to test the resolve of the new administration. Nobody knows you or what you're going to do on foreign policy yet.” 

“As long as that keeps working to our advantage, that's fine with me,” Roger decided. “Tell Lord Marbury that we'll honor the deal as long as India keeps its hands to itself, in whatever diplomatic language he'd like to couch that in. Anything else?” This time nobody else chimed in, so he stood up (and everybody else stood up as well, something he was never going to get used to) and escaped to the better-lit corridors of the White House with Eric at his heels. 

Margaret and Alex were waiting outside, Margaret impassive, Alex all but bouncing on his heels.   
“Mr. President, Senator Vinick has arrived in Washington and is waiting on your convenience to speak with you,” Margaret reported as they all began to walk. Most conversations with the West Wing staff seemed to happen this way. “He's the most senior of the surviving senators. I have his briefing folder for you-” 

Roger shook his head and waved it away. “I know Arnie Vinick, we worked together when I was back in California.” Had voted for him once, in fact, something he wasn't necessarily ready to disclose in mixed company. “He's a good guy. Why wasn't he at the State of the Union?” 

“His wife just died, sir,” Margaret replied. “Two weeks ago, breast cancer.” 

“Jesus.” Roger ran a hand over his face. “I hadn't heard that. She was a really nice woman, a class act. Can I set him for first thing tomorrow morning? I'm supposed to be meeting with the chief protocol somebody so I don't accidentally get us into a war when I meet with all these ambassadors.” 

Margaret nodded and looked to Alex; Alex made a note on his clipboard. “I'll tell Syl,” he assured the President. “You're meeting with the Chief of Protocol-” 

“Assistant Chief of Protocol,” Margaret put in. “The Chief of Protocol escorts the Dean of the Diplomatic Corps to the State of the Union. You'll need to appoint a new Chief of Protocol, and Palau will be sending a new ambassador, who the Assistant Chief will probably be talking to you about.” 

Alex nodded vigorously. “You've got her at seven, which gives you half an hour to get over to the Residence and eat something. I got you in a double order of meatloaf from Mr. D's, which was quite a trick, let me tell you, what with the secret service examining all the takeout boxes and the street blockades and all, but this way you can have some for breakfast too, if you want. But you need to eat something,” he finished with cheerful firmness. Margaret nodded agreement. 

Roger ran a hand over his hair, feeling that uncomfortable drowning sensation beginning to creep up again. “All right, first food, then protocol, then ambassadors, then Vinick tomorrow morning. Margaret, can you get Eric up to speed with what's going on around the building, and then set him up with the most urgent of the briefing books? Make sure he meets the people he's going to need to know.” 

“Yes sir,” Margaret replied briskly, then turned to Eric. “I'll take you back to your office.” She glanced over at Alex. “Can you find the way to the Residence?” she asked, sounding slightly dubious. 

“Yep!” Alex assured her breezily, waving his clipboard. “I've got a map now, I'm totally good.” Margaret still looked a little skeptical, but headed off anyway at her usual clip, leaving Eric with only enough time to give Roger a dirty look before scampering after her. “I'm pretty good,” Alex assured Roger. “Ninety percent certain. You probably need to stretch your legs after all those meetings, right?” 

Roger stared at him for a minute, then had to laugh. At this point, it was really the only possible response. “If they have to send a search party after us, I'm demoting you back to intern, you understand.” 

“You're just crabby because you're hungry,” Alex told him. “What you need is the most thoroughly vetted plate of meatloaf in Washington DC, and it's waiting for you just up those stairs.” He pointed and started off in that direction. “I'm pretty sure.” Roger followed him.


	11. Carol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, still here! I swear I'm still writing, it's all just taking so much more time these days. Thank you to everyone for reading and for your sweet comments and your encouragement. This chapter is dedicated specially to my mother, who keeps texting me and reminding me that she and my dad are waiting for new chapters of this one. :)

Carol was beyond tired. She’d been tired before plenty of times, exhausted even, but this was the first time she could remember staring at tired as it receded in the rearview mirror, feeling nothing more than numb resignation. The phones had finally slowed down, which meant it had to be very late, but from her alcove outside the press secretary’s office she really couldn’t see any windows and nobody had turned off the lights in three days. She wished distantly that she’d gone home on Thursday evening to get some rest instead of staying to help cheer up Margaret, but then she’d have been alone to watch the State of the Union and that didn’t even bear thinking about. Working in the press office had taught her to always have one eye on the screen, so she’d been the first to see anyway. She wondered if the images on that crappy little television were going to play behind her eyes for the rest of her life. 

Since then, Danny had bullied her into going home once, long enough to change her clothes and pack a little bag, but she hadn’t been able to sleep at all. Coffee was plentiful in the West Wing, and there was always more than enough to keep her busy. She’d briefed three times that day, intercut with briefings from other agencies and the President’s own address that morning. Two interns had minded the phones as they rang off the hooks and the assistant press secretaries had run until they’d dropped to find research, field sources, and try to at least follow the news cycle, even if there was no way they’d ever get on top of it. The assistant press secretaries were very good at what they did, but sending one of them out to brief would’ve been a disaster. CJ chose her staff to bolster the areas she’d needed help in, which had never included needing somebody else to handle briefings. Henry had been the one to stand in whenever CJ was occupied, and he was… gone, now too. There was nobody else to stand at the podium. 

Sunday, it was Sunday now, very early Sunday morning, and she was going to need to brief at 9am. Normally there was no briefing on Sunday till noon, and even then the newspapers usually didn’t show up, but nothing was normal anymore. All Carol wanted in the world was to fall asleep at her desk and wake up to find CJ plowing through her office in her typical tornado-like fashion, spreading papers and messages, requiring coffee, shaking off the gaggle like mud from her shoes. She was so worn out she could almost see them, ghostly figures all, enacting the familiar morning ritual. Carol and Danny were the only ones left now, and Danny didn’t hurry through the halls or ask questions with that sly little grin anymore. And Carol could barely bring herself to walk into the empty office at all, not even when it would’ve made doing her work ten times easier. Part of her wished that she hadn’t send Gail home with Danny after all, but there was no changing it now. 

Earlier that evening, just after the last briefing, she’d gotten an unexpected call from James Robinson, who’d been press secretary under President Newman, more than a decade ago now. Carol could remember watching his press briefings as a high school student, though honestly not much about them. He’d been precise and straightforward in general but he’d lacked the flair… In any case, he’d called to speak with Carol personally, which had been a bit of a shock because she’d only ever met him once, at some reception or other and she was sure she hadn’t made much impression. Of course, she’d had a chance to make much more of one this past thirty-six hours, for better or worse. For a crazy moment when she picked up the phone, she’d thought Robinson was going to volunteer to take up the reins again and get this burden off her shoulders. But he was well past 70 now and that wasn’t going to happen. Instead he’d wished her luck, told her she was doing a fine job, and how terribly sorry he was that all this had happened.

He’d wanted to talk about CJ for a few minutes, and Carol had tuned out because she had to be able to do her job today, but she was sure it was all complimentary. He had a few pieces of advice as well, most of which Carol had already learned, but a few things she tucked away in her pocket, like the one about cheating away from the window in the afternoon briefings so the sun wouldn’t blind her. The idea of still giving briefings when by the time it was sunny enough to worry about that was a little overwhelming, but who knew what was going to happen? The last piece of advice he’d given her was to look in the flack jacket if she needed advice or needed a boost. Carol was press secretary now, or as close enough as made no nevermind, so she had a right to the tradition as well. She’d thanked him very much for the encouragement and advice, then put down the phone and cried a little because her friend and boss had read through all those notes during their first weeks on the job and now would never add her own. Carol really needed to stop crying, but the dead just kept sneaking up on her. 

She also really needed to get a few hours of sleep, even if it was just on one of the couches down in the basement. Tomorrow’s briefing schedule would be hard enough without being totally whacked out on no sleep and way too much coffee. She stood up slowly, wincing at the stiffness in her muscles after hours slumped in her chair, and began to gather her things. The sudden trill of her desk phone gave her a jolt, waking her up fully and setting her heart to pounding. “Press office,” she said automatically, picking up the phone. “Carol speaking.” 

“Hi, Carol.” 

The voice wasn’t familiar, despite the familiar greeting. It was… Carol couldn’t pin it down, why two simple words could send a chill down her spine, but they did. She waited for the caller to introduce themselves, say something more, but the line was silent. “Can I help you?” she finally ventured. 

“Carol… you’re the one giving the briefings today, aren’t you?” the voice went on. “Quite the clever one, staying home and getting the promotion.” He, definitely a he now, though the voice seemed distorted. “It’s amazing what getting rid of the corruption at the top does for the welfare of the little people, doesn’t it?” 

Eyes wide, Carol fumbled for the switch on the phone that turned on recording and alerted security to a problem. “Who are you?” she demanded. 

“The press office is responsible for news at the White House, right?” he asked, obviously rhetorically. “I’ve got a hot scoop for you, and you’re going to want to listen. Terrence Baylor martyred himself and his followers in the misguided belief that his work was done. You and I both know that’s not true, right, Carol?” The teasing way he said her name, with a heavy emphasis on the first syllable, made her shudder. “Kill Jed dead, and his little worm Tribbey steps up to the plate. All those senators and congresscritters, they’re being replaced as we speak. And then there’s you, standing on your little podium with Ms. Cregg’s body barely cold at your feet, telling the same tired old lies.” 

There didn’t seem to be enough oxygen in the air. For a wild moment Carol was afraid that the gas had been released again and she was about to die the same agonizing death as all the people at the Capitol building, but then she remembered to suck in a breath and the world came back into focus. The sound of running footsteps announced Simon Donovan, the new head of the Secret Service, along with two other agents. One of them already seemed to be monitoring the call on an earpiece. “Keep him talking,” she could see Donovan mouth silently. 

Carol nodded weakly and did her best. “I don’t- I don’t want to tell lies to the American people,” she began tentatively. “But I’m not sure I know what the truth is.” 

“Well then, sweetheart, listen up,” the caller told her, still sounding obscenely cheerful. “Terrence Baylor’s legacy lives on, and you’re all going to get real clear proof of that very soon if you don’t start returning the power of self-governance to the people. I’ll be sending you my manifesto very soon, and when it comes, you go ahead and read it on the air in its entirety. Do that, and I’ll leave you and all your little public servant friends alone for now. But a word of advice, little Caro, stay away from any place the Senate decides to meet. That’s an idea whose time has gone, gone, gone.” He chuckled. 

Her mouth was dry. Carol licked her lips and tried to speak anyway. “I can give you the press office fax number...” 

“Nope, no need, already got it. And it’s time for me to get gone before your Secret Service boys get too frisky. Goodnight, Carol, sweet dreams!” The line went dead, seconds before the receiver fell out of her nerveless fingers. 

Donovan snapped orders at the agents with him, but Carol didn’t really pay attention to what he was saying. They dispersed at a jog. “You recorded the call?” he asked her. 

“All but the first little bit,” she murmured, nodding. “I didn’t even notice it was the outside line. I should’ve noticed that right away, don’t you think? It’s not even the same ring.” 

The weight of Simon’s hand settled onto her shoulder, warm and alive. Thank god, at least some people were still alive. “You followed procedure,” he reminded her, “that’s the important part. Did you recognize anything about the voice? Have you ever gotten a call like that before?” 

She shook her head. “No, not either. It sounded… the voice sounded distorted, like he was talking from far away, or doing something to change it. And I’ve never gotten any calls like that. We get the crazies all the time, we have the office that faces the street, so to speak, but it’s never been like that. Do you think he really meant it? Was any of that stuff true?”

“Not a lot of run-of-the-mill crazies have the direct line for the White House Press Office,” Simon pointed out. Carol noted absently that this didn’t really answer her question, but she didn’t have the energy to follow up. “We’ll trace the call and analyze the recording, and we’ll be monitoring all communications to the Press Office. This is a positive sign.” 

Carol looked up at him, torn between disbelief and indignation. “What?” 

“The fact that somebody’s finally making contact,” Simon explained. “If a terrorist group is committing acts of violence but not making demands, it usually means they feel they haven’t made their point yet and need to escalate. It also makes it harder to engage with them and stop them. If this caller’s on the level, we could potentially learn a great deal about him. We also have a time frame to work with now, and a potential first target. It’s more than we had before.” 

“But he could be lying,” Carol couldn’t help but point out. 

“That’s true,” Simon agreed. “But it’s still more. What are you doing here at this hour anyway?” 

She shrugged. “I was about to- I don’t know. Couldn’t sleep, and I’ve got all this work to do anyway. I’ll probably lay down for a couple of hours at some point.” Right now she didn’t think she could sleep if she tried. 

“Nobody in this building ever goes home,” Simon commented ruefully. “They’re going to need to put in a laundromat down the basement.” 

“Have you been home?” Carol countered, dredging up a smidgen of weary curiosity. 

“I could use the laundromat too,” he admitted. “The gals from the Communications office are sleeping downstairs, you should get down there too. I’ll let you know if anything develops from that call.” 

“Thanks, Mr. Donovan.” As though being told by someone else to go to bed had been the signal her body needed, three days of exhaustion seemed to catch up with her all at once. She picked up the phone again, touched the button to call the switchboard. “This is Carol Fitzpatrick, I’m closing the press office.”


	12. Alex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody! Today is my birthday, so all of you get a present! Pretty sweet deal, huh? I'm still working on chapters of my other things, but Ourselves and Immortality has the largest number of IRL friends following and poking me about it, so it got a leg up on the others. :D Feedback is always appreciated, thanks to all of you for sticking with my stories even though updates have slowed down. Summer is coming, and it can't come fast enough!

Alex hurried through the deserted concourse with his tray of coffees, his steps echoing loudly from walls and vaulted ceiling. There was no particular reason for him to rush, it wasn't as though his mission was of national importance, but the unnatural emptiness of National Airport was giving him a serious case of the creepy-crawlies. There were security guards everywhere, and people he was pretty sure were soldiers or National Guard, but hardly any travelers, not with the city still locked down tighter than a drum. The travelers he did see looked pretty much the way he felt, spooked and unwilling to linger any longer than was necessary. Most of the shops were closed and shuttered, the muzak turned off. Even the flight announcements, sporadic as they were, seemed muted and short, as though the announcer weren't quite sure that giving out so much information was wise. He'd had to walk all the way to the adjacent terminal to find a food kiosk that was open at all. 

It was easy to find his destination at least, the small crowd of people at the far end of the concourse stood out clearly. The local rabbi and imam made an odd-looking pair as they spoke together in low voices, but both of them thanked Alex for their unadorned black coffees. He wended his way past the pair of Secret Service agents standing at relaxed attention (they did not want coffee) and found their charge standing by the window, holding a clipboard and listening attentively to one of the traumatologists who'd come out with them. For somebody who probably hadn't slept much in a couple of days, Donna Moss was holding up well, makeup done and hair neat, wearing a respectful black skirt suit. She took the coffee Alex gave her (one cream, four sugars) with a faint smile and a murmured thanks before turning back to Stanley Something-or-other (two cream, no sugar.) The small crowd of Congressional staffers, airport workers and other hangers-on would just have to get their own coffee.

Donna was a cool customer, Alex had already decided, self-contained and businesslike despite a certain brittleness that hinted at more going on below the surface. He'd heard the stories going around the bullpens, now that he knew for sure what the bullpens were. Donna had been the one to go and look at all the bodies and then come straight back to work, Donna had stepped up to take over Operations despite being severely outranked by about ten people, Donna had lost either her best friend or her soulmate in the attack depending on who you talked to, and couldn't even say his name aloud. Rumors were unreliable things, but at least some of it had to be true. He was pretty sure she'd also volunteered for this strange vigil, waiting for the next-of-kin to the Jewish and Muslim victims killed in the event, the attack, the thing. Alex still didn't really know what to call it. Nothing seemed to fit. 

At any rate, the reuniting of people with the remains of their loved ones would normally have taken place on an airbase somewhere, something more private and owned by the government, but with the airport all but shut down and the military bases at a frenzied pitch of activity, it had apparently made more sense to do it this way. Or somebody had come up with the idea and nobody had said no, either way. Alex wasn't sure, and he'd never breathe a word even if he were, but it seemed like a lot of little details like this were being made by fiat and default, just because there was nobody to deal with them on top of everything else. His train of thought was broken by the announcement of an incoming flight from Chicago-O'Hare, first of the day. 

When Rog- when President Tribbey had given Alex the assignment to go along with Donna, he'd thought it was going to be mostly for moral support and beverage-fetching. He hadn't counted on being tapped to escort a grieving family through the airport to the private lounge where the caskets were being held. It was awkward and strange, and he had to bite back his natural impulse to make a completely inappropriate joke as though it might ease the tension. The first time he entered the room was a bit of a shock in itself, first the cold chill of the air conditioning, then the rows upon rows of flag-draped caskets. He helped the family find their missing members and arranged for the porters standing nearby to help push the awkward metal carts. When a woman his mother's age slumped to the floor next to the casket and began to weep, he awkwardly gave her his handkerchief, then helped pull her to her feet. Around the room, other little scenes were playing out in similar fashion, but it seemed better, more manageable to just concentrate on this one slice of tragedy. 

There was paperwork to be filled out, a huge amount of it, which seemed like insult added onto injury, but nobody really complained about it. Weariness and fear pressed down on the room almost as palpably as the grief, squeezing out lesser emotions like frustration at bureaucracy. When the i's were dotted and the t's crossed, the procession moved out again, a slow parade of mourning, accompanied by the murmur of prayers and the sobs of the bereaved. Alex didn't follow them back to the plane; instead he escaped to an empty lounge and found the one television station showing old sitcom reruns, hiding there for fifteen minutes until the call came in for the flight from Atlanta. 

The last flight of the day, and the largest, was the flight from New York City. Alex was contemplating a piece of pizza he'd gone to great trouble to acquire and had no appetite to eat when he noticed Donna heading his way with another family. “If you come this way, Mr. Ziegler,” she was saying with grave deference, “Alex Harrison can show you to the receiving area.” Alex hastily set aside his food and rose to face the newly arriving trio. There was a fit-looking man in his early forties with the sort of hooding, piercing gaze that looked right through a person, a small, dark-haired woman, moderately pregnant, who looked like his wife, and another woman in her early fifties, dark hair and hooded eyes, with silent tears running down her cheeks. “Alex, this is David and and Anna Ziegler and Judith Ziegler-Nichols. They're here-” Her voice caught, just for a second. “They're here for Toby Ziegler. Can you take them?” 

Alex knew about Toby Ziegler, of course. Even if he hadn't known the name before this week, he'd have had it engraved in his brain by now. Apparently not a piece of paper had gone through the entire Communications department without his approval, which meant the entire place was now about a half-step from a giant sucking vortex leading into his empty office. But he'd never met the man personally, and he wondered why Donna, who obviously had, was passing them off to him. But he just nodded politely and said, “Of course, please come with me,” and led the trio onto the next step of their journey.

They were all quiet for the first little way. Alex had already learned that some people were in no mood to talk. But Judith spoke up after a few moments, her voice even despite those tears. “Do you work in the White House, Mr. Harrison?” 

“Please, call me Alex,” Alex replied, risking a half-smile. “I just started at the White House, I'm President Tribbey's personal aide. I've heard a lot about Mr. Ziegler, though. He's thought of very highly by everyone there.” 

“It always seemed so strange to have my little brother in the White House,” Judith continued, her voice a little distant, a little hollow. “I got him into politics, you know, when he was just a little thing. Mara and I would be left to babysit him, but we wanted to be out protesting instead, changing the world! So we gave him a little sign and took him along. He was fascinated by it right away, and he had such a gift for words...” 

She broke off, her voice cracking. David stopped walking and pulled her into a hug while the rest of them waited. “He had such greatness in him,” Alex could hear her rasp into her brother's shoulder. “Such beautiful words.” David stroked her back and whispered something Alex couldn't make out, and finally they began walking again. This time nobody said anything. 

The casket room had been emptied of perhaps three-quarters of its contents by the time Alex helped the family find the casket bearing the simple printed label, ZIEGLER, TOBIAS Z. David fingered the edge of the flag draped overtop of it. “Toby never served,” he muttered, sounding as abstracted as his sister.

There had been discussion of the flags on a level well above Alex's paygrade, but he knew the bare bones of the decision. “He died in the service of his country,” he told David simply. “It's fitting.” And that was true, but the beautiful flags also helped conceal the simplicity and nonuniformity of the caskets themselves. Nobody had ever expected to need so many, not here, not for this. There were Congressmen and reporters and junior staffers tucked away in whatever caskets had been readily available, but covered by the flags they were all the same. 

He stepped back to allow the family time to take in the reality of their own particular pine box, keeping an eye open for when it would be time to motion the porters in to help. Across the room he saw Donna enter, walking slowly with her arm around a well-dressed older woman. Nobody here looked happy or okay, but this woman looked empty, shattered, like the arm around her shoulder was the only thing anchoring her to earth at all. Donna's face had changed as well; she was still dry-eyed and stoic, but there were creases of stress and pain around her eyes and mouth that hadn't been there earlier. They walked together to one of the remaining caskets, off in the corner of the lounge. The woman reached out as though she would touch the flag like David had, but then snatched her hand back and turned away, dissolving into sudden tears. In a moment, Donna's arms were wrapped around her, holding tightly as the woman buried her head in the blonde's shoulder and sobbed. Alex looked away; this was another grief he had no right or desire to share. 

Back in the concourse, Alex was surprised to see Donna collecting a small suitcase from one of the gate agents. “I'll be going to Connecticut with Hannah,” she told Alex while looking down and fiddling with the latest of her many clipboards. Her voice was toneless, quick and even. “I've already cleared everything. I'll be back tomorrow evening. If you could, make sure that Margaret eats and sleeps sometime, okay? She's sneaky.” 

“Um, okay,” was all Alex could say, though the idea of trying to outsmart Margaret was daunting. “Are... are you gonna be okay?” 

She looked up and met his eyes for the first time. “I don't know.”

It was a lot more blunt honesty than he'd been expecting. “Okay.” was all he could think of to say. “Good luck.” 

“Thanks,” By the time Donna left, taking the sad woman and the two agents with her, most of the others were gone as well. Alex fell in with the grief counselors as they walked back towards the parking lots, listening quietly as the professionals spoke with one another, offering a little bit of emergency decompression after an intense situation. Things hadn't been that bad for Alex, not really. He knew people who had died, everybody did, but not very well, and nobody today had screamed at him or collapsed on him the way they had with the counselors. As far as trauma went, he was maybe the least traumatized person in the whole Tribbey administration. It seemed weird and kind of wrong that he should be feeling so sad and lost anyway. 

Back at the White House, he collared Sylvia in their shared office and did his very best to pawn off his assignment from Donna on her. “I don't think she's going to listen to me,” Sylvia pointed out dubiously. “I mean, she's not nasty or anything, but I get the feeling like whenever we talk, I'm just slowing her down. I'm good at my job!” she insisted, “it's just that my job before wasn't even a little bit like this new job. It's a learning curve! Why don't you go bother her?” 

“Well, I figured you two have lots more in common, so maybe it would be easier for you to befriend her,” Alex replied, shoving his hands into his pockets and trying out a grin. “You're both redheads, and women, and secretaries, right? That's a lot in common right there! Besides,” he added, winding up for the coup de grace, “you know more about getting women into bed than I ever will.” His grin broadened when she snorted with laughter. It was nice to have one person he could still safely joke around with. 

“Seriously Alex, you need every square inch of your ass kicked,” Sylvia told him with mock irritation. “What am I supposed to do, anyway, take Margaret a blanket and pillow?” 

“Probably not, it's like four in the afternoon,” Alex countered. “How about a bag of chips or a muffin or something? At least then we can say we tried. Donna seemed to think she wasn't eating nearly enough.” 

Sylvia sighed, her innate compassion carrying the day where Alex's arguments failed. “All right, I'll see what I can do,” she agreed reluctantly. “But don't mess with anything on my desk. And don't answer the phone. Don't... just don't do anything. Stand there very still till I come back,” she insisted, even as she headed out the door. 

Satisfied with his work, Alex turned to what was supposed to be his new desk, though he had no idea what was in it or what he was supposed to do in more than the broadest sense. He'd fallen into the job with Roger Tribbey almost by accident, interning at the Ag Sec's office to offset a less than stunning GPA in his political science minor, then impressing the Secretary with his uncanny knack for turning up whatever was needed whenever it was needed, no matter how esoteric or late. It was a good gig, but here in the White House, President Tribbey had an entire staff devoted to getting him whatever he needed whenever he needed it. If Alex didn't want his job to become carrying things from the Outer Office into the Oval Office, he was going to need to figure out what else he was supposed to be doing, and quick. 

A noise at the door drew his attention. “Can I help you?” he asked automatically. The young man in the doorway was dressed surprisingly casually for the White House, where even in the current circumstances everyone came to work in suit-jacket business attire. This guy was wearing a simple navy blue polo shirt and khaki pants, but despite the wardrobe he seemed to fit in somehow. He certainly looked like a denizen of the West Wing, to judge by the circles under his eyes and the pinched look of perpetual subdued grief. 

“Are you Alex Harrison?” the newcomer asked. At Alex's nod, he stepped further into the room and extended his hand. “I'm Charlie Young. I was President Bartlet's body man, his personal aide.” Charlie used the past tense correctly without the usual bobble, but the effort clearly cost him something. 

“Oh yeah, it's good to meet you,” Alex replied, nodding and shaking the offered hand. “So this is your desk.” He gestured to the pin-straight work area. “It's nice.” 

“It's not mine anymore,” Charlie told him, his voice tightening a little. “It's yours now.” 

Alex took a hasty step away from the desk. “Oh no, I don't want it to be like that,” he assured Charlie. “I don't want to put you or anybody out of a job. There's more than enough work to do around here...” 

Charlie shook his head with a faint smile. “Don't worry about it, I'm not trying to get it back. I don't really think I could do the job for anybody else,” he confided. “I didn't have it for very long, but it was... it was something else. I'm going to be heading out with Zoey, up to her place in Manchester for awhile when she goes. But she's resting now, and I figured maybe you could use a little on-the-job training. Or at least somebody to show you where the pens and stamps are.” 

“Yeah...” Alex smiled and relaxed, letting his shoulders drop. “I don't know where anything around here is. I can barely find my way to the cafeteria, let alone the office supply closets.” 

“They call it the Mess here,” Charlie advised him. “And let me pass along the most useful tool there is for working in the White House.” He stepped past Alex to the desk, opened one of the drawers, and withdrew a laminated sheet of paper. It was hand-drawn and somewhat crude, but it clearly showed the three sections of the White House and the three floors of each, with every room labeled in tiny letters. The West Wing alone took one entire side of the paper. “Ted, the guy who had this job before me, spent a couple weeks exploring the whole place and figuring things out. Far as I know, this is the only copy. Take care of it,” he advised. 

Alex accepted the document gratefully, treating it like the precious artifact that it was. “You have just saved me endless hours of wandering,” he informed Charlie. “I probably owe you my firstborn child just for that. But you've had this job before, I've gotta ask... what am I supposed to be doing?” 

Charlie looked to the closed door to the Oval Office. “Whatever he needs,” he finally replied. Alex sighed at the vague answer, but Charlie just shrugged. “It's true, and it's never going to be easy to define,” he advised. “The President has a whole lot of people who'll do whatever he wants them to, but he's always The President to them. Like a symbol, a figure and not a person. He's still the President to you, but you're the one who sees him as a man still, somebody who needs sleep and food and a break to watch TV sometimes. You take care of him when he's taking care of the country.” 

“Huh.” Alex chewed over that idea, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I think I see where you're coming from. Not exactly an easy job, I guess.” 

“No,” Charlie agreed softly. He looked away again, his voice catching a little this time. “But it's the best job in the world.”


	13. Sunday Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey again, everyone! The school year is finally winding down, and with its end, my energy levels and motivation are creeping back up! You'll be glad to know that I had a really rotten day last week, which put me in the mood to sketch out this chapter and two more as well, so hopefully I can start moving this along a bit faster. Somehow being depressed and angry makes this particular story so much easier to write! Hope you enjoy, feedback is loved and welcomed.

There were days when the Oval Office could be a warm room. On a sunny afternoon, when the light poured in through the doors from the North Portico and illuminated the large window behind the desk, the whole place looked almost gilded, like the inside of a Faberge egg. Air conditioning kept the temperature seventy-three degrees year-round but did not affect the warmth of those colors, or the warmth generated by the personality of its occupant. The first time Roger had stepped into the Oval Office in daylight had been a lovely spring afternoon, when he'd met with President and Mrs. Bartlet about his school lunch initiative. It was a warm memory, of warm, if slightly intimidating, people. 

Today the Oval Office was not a warm room. The sun hadn't really come out since Thursday, which wasn't uncommon for late January in DC, but it was starting to feel like a portent. A misty drizzle outside clouded the view from the windows and made even the massive office seem claustrophobic and chilly as a meat locker. There were a lot more guards outside than there'd been before, too. At least the clock wasn't ticking anymore. The constant noise had been nearly maddening, ticking away the minutes of Roger's days, of all their lives, until finally he'd made Alex slap a post-it note on the thing to forbid anybody winding it up. The complete quiet was also fairly ominous, but still not quite as bad. It let him stand at the window and brood in peace.

Alex was out at the airport now, helping Donna deal with the first wave of bereaved families collecting their loved ones. Roger's initial thought was that he ought to be there as well, but Simon Donovan had quickly disabused him of that notion. Any thoughts Liz'd had about getting Roger out to church this morning had been dispensed with just as quickly. The new President must be safeguarded at all costs, and leaving the White House endangered not only him, but his Secret Service contingent, his staffers, and the civilians anywhere he chose to go. For the moment, this building was Roger's very beautiful, very busy prison. At least he was allowed visitors, even if most of them came bearing doom and gloom. 

As though summoned by his thoughts, Sylvia appeared in the doorway from her office. “Mr. President, Senator Vinick is here to see you.” 

Roger turned away from the window, automatically smoothing his lapels. “Thanks Syl, send him in.” 

Arnold Vinick was a tall, lean man, with the sort of distinguished face that had obviously been very handsome in youth. Up until this morning, Roger would never have said he looked his age, but today he seemed a hundred years old despite his tailored suit and measured walk. He stepped into the Oval Office with the ease of someone who'd been there many times, exactly the opposite of most people lately. “Mr. President, thank you for seeing me.” 

“Senator Vinick, thank you so much for coming.” Roger stepped out from behind his desk, feeling awkward as he moved to shake the man's hand. It occurred to him that this was his first actual political meeting; everything before now had been with staffers and members of the military or the Secret Service. Here was where the governing actually began. “Did your flight make it in all right?” 

“Well, we made it in,” Vinick offered wryly, shaking Roger's hand with a firm and practiced grip. “Most surreal plane trip of my life, and I've flown out of LAX for three decades. There were four families on the flight,” he added, his face suddenly grave. “It's good of you to release the bodies.” 

“It seems like the least we can do at this point,” Roger admitted, walking over to the candy-striped couches. “Please, have a seat.” Almost without thinking, he sat down in one of the straight-backed chairs, just like President Bartlet tended to. “Have you had a chance to speak with the other Senators yet?” 

“I've talked to them by phone,” Vinick told him, “and we're making plans to meet soon. It shouldn't be too hard to find a venue, we'll fit into the corner booth at Denny's these days.” His smile was mirthless. “The FBI and the Capitol Police are being very cagey about when or even if the Capitol building will be open for business again, but it doesn't really matter with nobody in the country wanting to gather in any group bigger than a Sunday School class.” He pursed his lips. “I don't suppose you called me here to tell me you've caught the folks who did this and we can all go back to work.” 

“Not for lack of trying, I assure you,” Roger replied earnestly. The worst part of this gig, he'd already decided, was the way talking to somebody like General Larsson or Senator Vinick made him feel like he was student teaching again, wet behind the ears and outmatched in proficiency and experience by everyone around him. He stuffed those feelings down a little further and tried to maintain what gravitas he could. “The investigation is expanding in multiple directions, and I'm getting hourly updates. It's the number two priority, but the first has got to be getting the government up and running again.” Vinick nodded agreement with that. “Tell me about the situation with Congress.” 

Vinick leaned forward, resting his forearms comfortably against his thighs. “You've got the eight of us holdouts,” he began, “then another eighteen who have already been appointed and are on their way as we speak. I expect we'll see another crop on Monday morning, at least a dozen, and then it might slow down for a day or two as politics kick back in.” He gave the president a half-smirk. “So far the governors are being careful not to upset the applecart too much on their appointments. Nobody wants to look like they're being crass and political at a time like this. An informal vote by conference call this morning has me as Majority Leader, but that's obviously provisional.” 

Roger nodded. “You'll have to forgive me, I'm not very familiar with Senate rules of order. How many Senators do we need before you can get up and running again?” 

“Just start right in with the hard questions,” Vinick invited with a rusty laugh. “The best answer I can give you is 'pretty much any damn number, except eight isn't enough.' You see, in the Senate there are a whole boatload of procedural rules that we typically only invoke strategically, and one of those is quorum. No matter how many Senators are actually at work on a given day, the rules assume a quorum unless some fool sticks his head up and says there aren't enough Senators around to conduct business. So theoretically the eight of us could chip in for a new gavel and set up for a little governance at Denny's, except that we couldn't vote on anything.” 

“That seems like it might be a problem,” Roger observed. 

“You'd be surprised how much of my job consists of not voting on things,” Vinick countered, “but you're right that it's not ideal. Part of the whole “assuming a quorum” business is that when it comes to a roll-call vote, you need a minimum of one-fifth of those who are assumed to be present to vote in favor. If we're pretending we have fifty-one senators just so we can conduct business, that means we need eleven yea votes just to bring something up for a vote.” 

“But you only have eight, even if you all agree,” Roger realized with a nod. 

“Exactly. So in a bare procedural sense, without invoking all sorts of esoteric rules about vacancy that my interns have been scrambling all weekend to understand, I'd say eleven. But we're not going to work with eleven senators.” Vinick leaned back against the couch. “If we're looking to restore faith in government, the worst way to do it is with a handful of Senators making confirmations and Congress not even in session until further notice. People won't feel represented.” 

“What do you suggest?” 

“Actual quorum, bare minimum,” Vinick replied firmly. “That's fifty-one, with ideally at least one senator from each state, even if you have to sit on the governors till they cough one up. Set a goal for a national special Congressional election day in six to eight weeks, then try and get the states to agree. There are some discretionary funds you should be able to tap into if you want to help the states that play ball to offset their costs.” He steepled his fingers. “In the meantime, are you coming up with your nominations? You've got plenty to be making.” 

Roger nodded again. “I've got people here round the clock working on it, literally,” he assured the senator. “I don't think most of the people here ever sleep. I'm still trying to fill my staff and advisory positions, but we're vetting the joint chiefs first, then vital cabinet positions, Supreme Court justices, then coming back to mop up on the more minor cabinet offices. Like Secretary of Agriculture,” he admitted with a rueful smile. “I'd like to see Roberto Mendoza on the bench as soon as possible. He's already well into the process, and we need somebody speaking for the Supreme Court. And...” He ran a hand over his thinning hair, half-embarrassed to admit it. “President Bartlet wanted him on the court. It seems right to make that happen.” 

Vinick sighed. “I'm not a great fan of Roberto Mendoza myself, but your point is well-taken. I can't speak for every one of the new appointees, but the general mood right now is bipartisan cooperation of necessity. Republicans and Democrats don't matter much if we allow the government to collapse while we're fighting over it. If you're willing to reach across the aisle on your nominations, we'll reach back on the confirmations,” he promised, then hesitated a second.“You're not going to make Mendoza Chief Justice, are you?” 

“I hadn't thought about it one way or the other,” Roger admitted. “Shouldn't I?” 

That got another chuckle from Vinick. “Roberto Mendoza would be the unhappiest Chief Justice to ever don the robe,” he assured Roger. “The guy's a maverick and proud of it. You can't be the principled outsider if you're sitting in the big chair in the middle. Get an established centrist like Peyton Harrison or Jeff David from the Seventh Circuit and you'll set a lot of minds at ease.” 

“I see.” Roger nodded thoughtfully. “In the spirit of reaching across the aisle, would you and the other Senators be willing to sit down with my legislative liaisons and talk about your suggestions for nominees? I can't promise anything one way or the other, but I want to avail myself of every bit of expertise available, and a lot of that is in the Senate right now. 

“Of course,” Vinick agreed. He glanced in the direction of the door. “Should I have my aide set something up?” 

“Yes, that'll be fine,” Roger told him. “Right now, though, if you could, I'd like you to meet with Simon Donovan, the head of the Secret Service here. Even with the Capitol building under wraps, we want to make sure that you have someplace a little better than a Denny's to convene, and that the place is going to be absolutely secure. He can go over some things with you.” 

“I'd be happy to, Mr. President.” Vinick rose along with Roger, then shook his hand again. “You've got a tough job ahead of you, sir. I can't say I've never thought about being President, but this isn't the way anybody wants to come into the office. If there's anything I can do to help, you only have to call.” 

“Thank you, Senator,” Roger said warmly. “I'll keep that in mind. I wanted to say how sorry I was to hear of your wife's death,” he added as Vinick began moving towards the door. “I didn't know her well, but she was a terrific lady.” 

“She really was,” Vinick agreed, his voice suddenly hoarse. “I don't know what I'm going to do without her. But at the same time...” He paused. “At the same time, part of me is glad she didn't have to see all of this.” 

“Yeah,” Roger murmured. “I can understand that. But I like to think our finest hours are still ahead of us. Take care, Senator, and keep in touch.” 

“Thank you, Mr. President.” After Vinick left, Roger had exactly seven minutes to eat the lunch Sylvia brought him (McDonalds this time, and not especially warm, but he was hungry enough to eat it anyway) before Sylvia announced Lilly Mays to see him. 

The First Lady's Chief of Staff was impeccably dressed and coiffed, for all she looked as though she'd barely finished crying before entering the Oval Office. She was considerably younger than Roger had expected, closer to Margaret's age than Leo McGarry's, but he supposed that the required expertise and skill sets between the two offices were very different. In her hands she carried a clipboard and a pile of black file folders. Roger wasn't sure he'd ever seen a black file folder before. “Mr. President, if you have a moment, I'd like to speak with you about the state funerals.” 

Roger paused in his efforts to sneakily eat the last of his french fries behind the desk, suddenly finding himself without an appetite. “Of course, Lilly. Have a seat.” He waved her to the chair next to the desk. “I understand you've been working with the Deputy Chief of Protocol?” 

“Yes, and the Social Secretary's office, the Press Office, the Secret Service-” Lilly hadn't needed much to get her going; she reeled off the dozen organizations involved in planning a state funeral as though she'd been reading from a list. “I've also been speaking with Zoey Bartlet and her grandparents about private memorials for the rest of the Bartlet family. President Bartlet, Vice President Hoynes, and the Supreme Court Justices will all be released tomorrow, and we need to decide what to do with them. The current suggestion is that since the Capitol Rotunda is unavailable, President Bartlet be allowed to lay in state in the East Room until being moved to the National Cathedral for public viewing, while the justices lay in repose in the Great Hall at the Supreme Court building, and Vice President Hoynes lay in honor at the Hoover Building. Vice Presidents are not typically given state funerals, of course, but under the circumstances...” 

“The East Room?” Roger repeated, a bit dumbly. “You mean the East Room here, in the White House?” 

“It's traditional when a sitting president dies,” she assured him. “There are plans and equipment already available to take care of everything, and it will only be for a day or so while National Cathedral is being secured. The funeral is set for Wednesday, which doesn't allow for a long visitation period, but given what's going on, I don't think too many people are going to be making in-person visits anyway. You'll be expected to attend the funeral service, of course, but you will not need to speak, and you may if you choose participate in the procession-” Lilly kept talking, but Roger tuned her out. He'd had enough trouble dealing with funeral arrangements for his own parents, much less trying to cope with protocol for half the government. He felt bad about it, knowing that upstairs Zoey Bartlet was faced with both at the same time, but there was only so much he could handle and maintain his sanity. Today the living would have to take priority. 

“Lilly,” he cut in gently, “it sounds like you've got all the i's dotted and t's crossed on this already. I'm sure that whatever you and the protocol officer and the military liaisons come up with is going to be fine and fitting. Any decisions you need to make, you can send a message through Sylvia and I will get back to you on it as soon as I can. Thank you for all the work you're doing to make this a smooth process. I know it can't be easy.” 

Tears pooled in Lilly's dark eyes once more, but she blinked them back. “Thank you, sir,” she replied. “It's just... my first real job was assisting Dr. Bartlet in the state house in New Hampshire, and I came back to work for her on the campaign. I'm really going to miss her, and she would just... she would hate all of this so much,” she admitted with a watery laugh. “She barely tolerated state dinners, much less all of this hoopla, and now she and the girls just sit and wait and wait in that horrible warehouse until all the state funerals are over and they can be flown back to Manchester...” 

Roger reached out and put a hand over hers, giving it a comforting squeeze. “I'm sure she'd be glad to know you're still looking out for her,” he assured the distraught young woman. “Funerals tend to be more about the needs of the living than the desires of the dead, I'm afraid, especially for something like this.” Withdrawing his hand, he began fiddling idly with one of the presidential-seal pens on his desk. Sylvia had turned up a whole box of them in the Outer Office the night before. “The country needs the pomp and the ceremony right now. It's a reminder that this has happened before, even if it's never been quite this big. I'm sure the private services in Manchester will be a lot more like something Mrs. Bartlet would've wanted.” 

“Yes sir, I'm sure you're right.” Lilly carefully swiped the side of a finger under each eye to whisk away any moisture, then rose along with the President to take her leave. “I'll have a schedule of events to your office by noon tomorrow,” she promised. “Thank you, Mr. President.” 

After that excruciating meeting it was time for a briefing with Eric, then a quick chat with Alex about how things had gone at the airport. Alex was considerably more subdued than usual, but that wasn't too surprising. It had been a tough day for everyone. All the bodies had been claimed properly and Donna had gotten onto her flight without incident, so at least that was one task accomplished. It was nice to have one thing accomplished, given that the rest of the afternoon was pointless updates on an investigation that wasn't getting anywhere at the moment. There had been no further contact from the suspect, and agents were still tracking down all possible leads. Roger had to remind himself that it had been less than twenty-four hours since Carol had gotten the call in the press office, and that things didn't always move at the blinding speed of the past three days. They would catch the guy, it was just a matter of when, and whether he'd kill anybody else in the meantime. 

Despite the stall in the investigation, Roger still somehow ended up in the Situation Room that evening. Troops were moving somewhere in the Middle East in a way that concerned Calvin Traeger and General Larsson a great deal, for all Roger could barely make heads or tails of it. This was definitely the sort of thing he was going to have to bone up on as President, but for right now he went along with the general's recommendation of close observation and a back-channel search for better intelligence before doing anything. After Wednesday, Roger promised himself, he was going to sit down and somehow get himself up to speed on foreign policy. 

The evening ended with a conversation with the governors of Ohio and Pennsylvania, where sudden snowstorms were knocking out power and leaving motorists stranded on roadways. National Guard mobilization and a promise of emergency aid took care of that, and then things were finally quiet enough for Roger to retire to the Residence for the night. That part of the building was quiet and dim, empty but for the ubiquitous Secret Service agents every dozen yards. As Roger walked down the corridor towards the third floor stairs, he could faintly hear a young woman weeping behind one of the closed doors, with a quieter, deeper voice trying to comfort her. He hesitated for a moment, then walked on. Even with all the power in the world, there were some problems he couldn't do a damn thing to solve.


	14. Mallory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm on vacation again, whee! Normally I wait for depressing moods to write this particular AU, but my father told me that if I was going to be using his office and his very nice computer while I was visiting, I'd better be working on the story he was following. So you can credit this one to my dad, for better or worse! Feedback is welcomed and loved!

On a normal day, getting to the White House from Mallory’s folks’ house in Chevy Chase could take up to an hour. Nothing in that neighborhood was convenient to the Metro, so fighting traffic was second nature. Today there was no traffic at all, but it took almost two and a half hours to cover the six miles of DC roads. It was a surreal experience, like falling into a news documentary about occupied territory or the faraway countries where terrorists seemed to lurk around every corner. She hit her first checkpoint at Florida Avenue, nowhere near the White House, and things only got worse from there.

She supposed that she shouldn’t have been so surprised by all of this. It wasn’t as though anything else was normal this week. School was cancelled across the District, with no firm date given yet on when it would resume. Churches, offices and public buildings were all closed, and even if they’d been open, people wouldn’t have gone to them. Just because the first attack had been a massively high-profile target didn’t mean the second one was going to be. Every building had a ventilation system, every building was vulnerable. When Mallory had gone to the grocery store yesterday, the sliding doors at the front and the large loading doors around the sides were all propped open to make up for the fact that there was no air circulating through the ventilation system. Just as well it was January and not June, she’d decided. People moved through the aisles quickly, almost furtively, getting the supplies they needed and getting out as soon as possible. There was little talking and, oddly enough, no fighting. The lines were long but nobody seemed to be jumping them. They just stood and waited and looked around, scoping out exits, keeping an eye on their children. Some people cried as they shopped but nobody bothered them about it. Everyone was waiting for something, with nobody willing to say what it was. 

She herself had spent most of the past three and a half days holed up at Mom’s house, watching the news and trying to assimilate the gaping new hole in her world. Her father had been an inconsistent presence for most of her life, but the idea of him being truly gone was unfathomable, inconceivable. It had been hard enough to believe it when Mom had asked him for the separation last year. After everything they’d gone through and all that she had endured with her husband, why now that he was clean, when Mal was just getting a chance to know him? Mom hadn’t really been able to give her a good answer except that she was tired, tired enough that she couldn’t be bothered to hope for better anymore. Dad had been surprisingly good about the separation, with none of the shouting and temper that had marked family fights during his drinking years, probably because Mallory knew he’d never really considered the separation to be permanent. He’d sent flowers several times, called regularly, honestly made more time for the relationship than he had most of the time that they were still living together. But Jenny O’Brien had been married to an alcoholic and an addict for thirty years and she no longer believed his promises of being a changed man. She’d been moving on, and Mallory had done her best to support the process despite the way it hurt. After so many years, her mom deserved to not sacrifice herself for some vague idea of the nuclear McGarry family anymore. 

All of that, all the history, all the complication, had dissolved in an instant on Thursday night. Mallory had gone to the pre-speech reception to talk to Sam, but had decided she’d rather watch the speech in her blue jeans at Mom’s house than get all dressed up to attend in person. She’d caught sight of Dad just for a minute as the President had come in, but the Chief of Staff stayed behind the scenes as usual. Even now she couldn’t decide whether that was blessing or curse, whether she was glad not to have seen what happened to him, or angry to have been denied one last look. It had been hours before the networks had finally confirmed that there were no survivors in the Capitol Building, and for every minute of those hours she’d hung onto hope that maybe, maybe he’d gotten out. When the news had finally broken Mom had gone up to bed, the same bed she and Dad had shared for so many years. She’d barely come down since. This was not the way the story was supposed to end. Not for Dad and Mom, not for Josh Lyman, who’d been Mal’s honorary cousin since she was tiny. Not for Sam Seaborn, charming and bumbling, who’d looked at her like a puzzle he really wanted a chance to solve. Not for President Bartlet, not for the country, not for any of the people she’d watched die on live national television. Even as Mallory scripted lesson plans in her head for whenever school finally started again, she had no idea how to explain any of this. 

The call from Margaret this morning had been unexpected, but the paperwork her father’s assistant had faxed over had been sufficient to get Mallory through every checkpoint thus far. Margaret was nothing if not efficient, even in times of crisis. Mal could remember how pissed Mom had been to learn that Dad had hired a twenty-two year old redhead as his new secretary at Mueller-Wright, but the two women had reached detente over the shared duty of keeping Dad up and running during the worst of his bad spell. Of course Mal hadn’t known about any of that at the time, but as she got older Margaret had become a friend and even an ally in the struggle to get Dad to take care of himself and maybe come home from work occasionally. Now, though… she wasn’t sure of the reason for Margaret’s summons, or her own alacrity in responding, but it had seemed imperative at the time. Maybe seeing Dad’s office again would shake something loose, help her understand something or… or something. 

The last checkpoint before the White House involved barbed wire fences and serious-looking police artillery, manned by serious-looking men wearing body armor and respirators. It didn’t feel anything like Washington DC or America, but at the same time she could understand why all this security was in place. What would the country do if the little bit of government they had left was obliterated as well? The police searched her car inside and out with a bomb dog, then checked her papers twice before letting her through to drive into the visitor parking area. There were four guards on the door instead of the usual one, and they checked her over again thoroughly before assigning her the very same “A” badge she’d gotten on every other visit, a strange anti-climax to the security theater performance. 

Margaret came out to meet her in the lobby before she’d had time to so much as get her bearings. Dad’s trusty assistant looked as exhausted as Mal had ever seen her, even during the last days of the election when Dad had only been sleeping four hours every other night. Her clothes were wrinkled as well, usually an unpardonable sin in the Tao of Margaret. Still she managed to muster up a smile for Mallory as she approached with hands extended. “Hi Mal, thanks for coming over. Was the trip difficult?” 

Mallory took Margaret’s hands and squeezed them lightly, trying to summon a smile of her own. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the gauntlet to get in here these days. Thanks for the papers, they did the trick.” 

“I haven’t left since Friday night,” Margaret admitted with a small shrug. “I wasn’t sure if things had changed. Come on back, won’t you?” Not sure how to respond to that, Mallory followed her into the warren of offices and cubicles that made up the Communications bullpen. At first glance it seemed almost unchanged, people scampering around with great speed and purpose, televisions blaring, phones ringing. But a closer look revealed a nerve center with no central cortex; both the Communications Director and Deputy Communications Director offices were closed up, shuttered and vacant. A woman Mal didn’t recognize seemed to be holding an impromptu staff conference in the middle of the bullpen as they walked past, something about a news conference at 2pm. It was hard to look in the direction of Sam’s office, but curiosity compelled her: his name was still next to the door. 

They rounded the corner to the conference rooms and stepped into Margaret’s office, a small haven of quiet in the noise. Even this was a bit more cluttered and hectic than usual, with boxes stacked in one corner and the coat tree covered not with Dad’s overcoat, but a handful of women’s suits in dry-cleaning plastic. The door to Dad’s office was already closed, and when Margaret closed the hall door, the little room was positively claustrophobic. “I was sorry to have to call you out here when it’s so difficult,” Margaret told her, twisting her long, slender fingers together in a way that looked painful. “I don’t know if you heard there’s a new Chief of Staff.” 

Mal had to clear her throat. “I heard that, yes. I understand why they had to move quickly, President Tribbey needs the support.” It still felt like another knife in the heart, but she could understand. 

Margaret nodded. “We can’t go without filling the positions, no matter how any of us might feel about it. The continuity of government plan was put into place in case the absolute worst possible thing could happen, and now that it’s happened, there’s really nothing for any of us to do but try and keep up with events.” She looked over at the stack of boxes. “Eric Rocio started work this weekend. The Chief of Staff office is his now, but I didn’t… it didn’t seem right for him to work in Leo’s office.” 

Mallory stepped over to the boxes and looked into the first one. She recognized her father’s model ships, the knickknacks he placed on his shelf, the special pens he favored above all others. Everything in the White House that had been Leo McGarry’s was in the boxes, neatly packed and carefully padded with Margaret’s usual meticulous care. As she lifted out one of the little ships, she heard Margaret still talking behind her. “I know I should’ve called your mother to pick the things up. The divorce hasn’t been finalized yet, so by the terms of the will she should have it, but it seemed so awkward, and the guards don’t know her from recently the way they know you.” It was obvious that she was babbling mostly to fill the silence in the tiny room. 

“It’s all right,” Mallory murmured, turning the little ship in her hands. She remembered visiting Dad’s office as a child, back in Chicago. He’d had the ships back then too, and she’d only been allowed to touch them under the closest of supervision. They’d been so fascinating though, so many tiny details on each one. Now they were all hers, and a big part of her wanted nothing to do with any of it. She was supposed to have years, decades before she had to go through her father’s effects. “Mom hasn’t been dealing too well. I don’t think she could’ve come anyway.” 

She turned in time to see Margaret pursing her lips with concern. “I don’t know if anyone’s talked with you already, but the FBI will be releasing most of… they’ll be releasing him tomorrow most likely. You and your mom will need to make arrangements. There’s a folder in the top of one of the boxes with information.” 

Margaret was not exactly twisting her fingers, Mallory decided as the assistant continued talking, more pinching her hands in various places. Acupressure points, maybe? She’d always been big into all that woo-woo stuff. It had by turns amused Dad and driven him a little crazy. Thinking about Margaret’s weird hand thing was a lot easier than listening to her explain that Dad already had most of his last wishes carefully thought out and written down as though he’d suspected something might happen to him, or that Margaret had somehow made the time in this hellish weekend to call Dad’s lawyer and his priest to smooth the way for his family. 

She found the folder in the second box and paged through it, looking blankly at the neatly typed pages that talked about savings accounts, investment accounts, deposit boxes, credit cards. Everything needed to close down Dad’s life on paper in orderly fashion. That was the easy part. She looked up at Margaret, who was still wringing her hands and watching her. “For the… when we go and claim… the body,” and god, how could it be so hard to say? “Will we have to um, identify, or look, or-” 

“No,” Margaret said quickly, understanding Mallory’s discomfort. “It’s all taken care of. There’ll be a flag-draped coffin and an escort. You’ll have some paperwork to fill out, and you’ll want to make sure that your funeral home has a car on hand. It’ll be very quick. Will you need somebody to go with you?” 

Mal wanted to say yes. How much easier would it be to have someone else handle the cold and bureaucratic reality of death? Mom wasn’t going to be up for this, she knew that much already. Grief and guilt were already threatening to eat her alive without anybody asking her to handle the final affairs of the man she’d lived with for thirty-one years minus four months, one who’d been parted from her by death after all. Without Mom’s help, Mal wasn’t sure she could arrange an appointment with the lawyer, much less do everything else that would have to be done. Margaret could’ve handled the paperwork and everything else with the same organized zeal she’d used to keep Dad’s life running smoothly all these years.

But no matter how unprepared Mal felt to handle any of this, it was her responsibility. Margaret and the other White House staffers had the country to take care of, a country for which Dad had given his life, figuratively and then literally. Margaret had a new boss, Dad’s office had a new occupant, and the world spun madly on. Leo McGarry’s time in the White House was over and he belonged solely to his family now. “It’s okay,” she assured Margaret. “We’ll take care of him. Thanks for everything.” 

“Okay.” As though being relieved of duty had allowed some kind of release, Margaret’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. She snatched up an embroidered handkerchief from her desk and pressed it to her eyes. “If there’s anything I can do, just let me know. He was a great man, Mallory. I know he had his flaws and sometimes he was impossible to get along with, and sometimes talking to him made you just want to bang your head against the wall. But he loved you more than anything, even when he didn’t show it. He was so proud of you!” She wiped her eyes, then dabbed daintily at her nose. “We’re all going to miss him so much…” 

Seeing somebody else cry was too much for Mallory to take, but she didn’t want to break down here in the White House. She pulled a tissue from the box on the desk and wiped her eyes hastily. “I know,” she managed to croak. “I’ll call and let you know when things are arranged. Um, could somebody help me get the boxes to the car?” Margaret nodded quickly, and in just a few moments Mallory was headed back to her car, followed by an intern with a dolly cart. If she never set foot in the White House again, it would be much too soon.


	15. Monday Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loyal readers! I had four pages of this chapter ready to go a week and a half ago, and then my house flooded. (Or something, something that caused me to come home from vacation to a strong smell of mildew and a lot of water-damaged carpet!) So this week has been entirely devoted to that, but now it is clean and smells much better around here, so I return to you with a fresh new chapter. I always love feedback, and hey, if there's a character who probably isn't dead and that we haven't heard from that you'd like to see, hit me up! You never know what might end up working out.

Monday got off to an uneventful start. That was a bit of a surprise to Roger, who had harbored some subconscious belief that the start of the business week would spur the progress of the investigation, as though maybe some agents took the weekend off or some businesses were inaccessible to the FBI just because it was Sunday. The day was busy anyway, not with the emergency at hand or the business of governing, but with all the things a President taking office should've done during Transition. Unfortunately for all of them, the transition period for the Tribbey administration had lasted approximately forty minutes while he'd stood in the Presidential Emergency Command Center and watched the world falling apart on television. It hadn't been a very good time for interviewing staffers and thinking about Cabinet appointments. Liz already had a line on a Deputy Communications Director, a sharp young political operative she knew from California who'd arrive in another day or two. Press Secretary was still open, so Roger had given Carol Fitzpatrick a brevet promotion to Deputy Press Secretary since she was doing most of the briefings anyway. The young woman had only looked a little bit terrified by the idea and Roger figured she'd do all right despite a relative lack of experience. He, Eric and Margaret had conducted one very productive DCOS interview in the morning, so progress was being made there.

Discussions for Cabinet positions had taken up much of the day. Ag Secretary was easy at least, Roger wanted his deputy in that slot as soon as possible. It wasn't much of a political appointment, putting a career bureaucrat in the slot, but this wasn't really the time for politics. Most of the other positions were a lot more complicated, especially the ones high up in the line of Presidential succession. Everybody was going to be thinking more about that from here on out. He spent much of the afternoon reading through dossiers for various candidates for Secretaries of State, Treasury and Defense, with a few jurist candidates for the Supreme Court thrown in for flavor. There were just so many of them, and this was the cream of the crop, picked out for him by his busy assistant deputy chiefs of staff and the crew in the Operations Bullpen. He didn't even want to see the piles that hadn't made it as far as his desk. 

Lily Mays dropped by again just after noon, her reddened eyes not quite hidden even by heavy makeup. She wanted to let him know that President Bartlet had been arranged in state in the East Room, as was traditional, even if there would be no public viewing. Members of the press would receive access in the morning, as would a collection of carefully vetted members of the public and the man's extended family. Roger thanked her for the information and tried to push it out of his mind as quickly as possible. He'd never been particularly comfortable with death, a fact that just seemed ironic now. At least he had people to deal with all that for him, or would once he finished hiring them.

“You know,” Eric pointed out as they picked through the remnants of the vetting pile in the early evening, “you also need to come up with a vice-presidential pick pretty damn quick.” 

“I know,” Roger muttered from behind his file folder, “but I think our time may be better spent filling positions where the people actually have work to do.” 

“You say that from habit, but it's yesterday's mentality,” Eric pointed out. “Nobody's going to be thinking of your VP as a bench-warmer. The American people are going to want somebody trustworthy, they want somebody experienced, and they want that person locked in a fucking lead-lined vault for the next three years in case something happens to you. And they want that person soon.” 

“You got any ideas?” Roger asked helplessly, unable to refute Eric's position, but not knowing what to do about it either. “I'm not sure you noticed, but we've got a bit of a talent shortage at the top right now. I've never even heard of half the people in these files!” 

“I might...” Eric began, looking as shifty as Roger had ever seen him. 

“Oh, I'm going to really hate this, aren't I.” 

“What about Newman?” 

Roger closed his eyes. “I assume you mean Alfred E. Neuman, because that is the only possible way-” 

“He's a Democrat, he's on board with a liberal agenda, he's well-known throughout the country, his favorables have risen considerably since 1991,” Erik continued inexorably, ticking off points on his fingers. “Trustworthy, in good health for his age-” 

“He couldn't win his own re-election!” Roger exclaimed, tossing down the folder he'd been reading. “He got trounced by Lassiter and slunk home to write angry op-eds about how the country is going to hell in a handbasket. Even I didn't vote for the guy!” 

“You were in the hospital with mono,” Eric pointed out, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “You didn't vote for anybody that year. I think it might have been the tipping point for poor D.W., really.” 

“Just please tell me you aren't serious about this,” Roger implored. 

“If you've got any better ideas, I'm wide open. We'll start vetting them immediately. But I'm afraid Alfred E. Neuman probably won't make it through the background checks.” Now Eric was just having fun, which both annoyed and reassured Roger. Getting wound up by Eric Rocio was the most normal part of this entire job so far. 

“Aside from it being a crazy idea, the man would never go for it,” Roger pointed out. “Why would anybody who has already been President take the VP slot?” 

“Because his country needs him,” Eric replied, sounding entirely serious for the first time in the conversation. “It's amazing what good men will do in times like this.” Roger had no response for that. 

It was just after seven pm by the time Roger found a few moments to even catch his breath. Apparently it had been President Bartlet's practice to go to the Residence for most meals, but it seemed a lot less awkward for Roger to just eat his meals in the office. He couldn't exactly go down to the Mess for a cup of coffee and a sandwich. So the most powerful man in the world (by some measures, at least) ate a packet of vending machine cookies at his desk while looking out the window at the spitting snow. 

He heard the door opening behind him. “Ro- I mean, Mr President?” Syl was having some trouble adjusting to the formality of the office. That was a little reassuring.

Roger turned his chair around to face her, guiltily wiping cookie crumbs from his fingertips. “Yes, Sylvia?” 

“You wanted me to let you know when Donna got back in the building? The front desk says she signed in about ten minutes ago. Are you eating junk food again?” 

“No,” Roger told her, which was true because he had already eaten all the junk food Alex had stashed away for him. He still found himself squirming under Sylvia's gimlet gaze. “Not at this precise moment.” 

“You're a hypocrite, Mr. President,” she scolded him. “How do you expect to get the schoolchildren to eat better when you sit in the Oval Office and eat garbage?” 

He tried a hopeful smile. “I won't tell if you won't?” 

“I'm ordering you some dinner,” she informed him crisply. “And it's going to be healthy.” 

Roger all but threw up his hands. “Well fine, I'll eat it! I'm starving!” 

“Then why didn't you just say so?” Syl demanded. He didn't exactly have an answer for that, other than he'd forgotten that was how things worked these days. “Did you want me to send Donna in?” 

“Donna, yes. As soon as it's convenient.” Roger shuffled the papers half-burying his elegant desk. “And go ahead and get some dinner for her, too. I will bet you just about anything that she hasn't eaten either. Nobody eats or sleeps around here.” 

“Righty-o,” Syl chirped, satisfied now that she'd gotten her way. Roger shook his head as she left, making a mental note to have Alex dig up a fruit bowl or something for the credenza. 

It was nearly fifteen minutes before Alex opened the door, bearing a couple of styrofoam containers and announcing Donna's arrival. Roger was honestly a little surprised she'd taken that long, but he had said when it was convenient. People here just seemed to equate that with “immediately” most of the time. 

In happier days, Donna's complexion probably tended toward marble or alabaster, but tonight she reminded him of his grandmother's bone china, so white as to be nearly translucent and looking exceedingly breakable. Still she was shockingly composed, hair perfect and clothes neatly pressed, something that probably required some magical talent after hours on an airplane. “I'm sorry to keep you waiting, sir,” were the first words out of her mouth. “I wanted to get an update from Operations so I could brief you.” 

“Don't worry about it,” he assured her, motioning her to the chair beside his desk. It was a little awkward, but there weren't a lot of convenient places to set food in here. Maybe he needed a coffee table. He'd just put that at number three thousand on the list of priorities. “Alex is just here with dinner anyway. He mentioned you got him to keep Margaret fed, which I think is an excellent idea.” Roger handed her one container, which she took with a bemused expression, then opened his own. “Looks like tonight we have...” He paused uncertainly. “Well, I would have to call this mutant hummus with pita points and strange chicken. But it does smell good.” 

Something that might have been the shadow of a smile crossed Donna's face. “It's baba ganoush and farrouj meshwi,” she supplied. “There's a Lebanese takeout place just a few blocks away. It's good.” 

Roger gave the meal a considering look, then speared a bit of the meat with his fork and tasted it. “You're right,” he agreed. “I guess you'd be familiar with the takeout places around here.” 

“Oh yes,” she assured him, much less guarded for a moment. “That was one of the first things on our agenda when we started out. Margaret and the other assistants and I, we set up a rotation to test out all the places in delivery range. She had a spreadsheet with ratings and metrics on it, and I think she even interviewed the Secret Service agents for it. We wanted to know which ones were good and reliable before we started pulling all-nighters. Of course with-” She paused, and he watched her shut down again. “We had a lot of late nights in our department right from the beginning,” she finally said, her voice quiet. At least she picked up a pita triangle with the mashed eggplant mixture on it and began eating. 

“It's a busy office,” Roger allowed carefully, not wanting to push on that any harder. He'd made an offhanded comment to Carol earlier about Danny Concannon's goldfish and nearly made her cry. This was an uneasy time to make small talk of any sort. Instead he concentrated on the food for a few minutes, till he wasn't so hungry and was pretty sure Donna had eaten something too. “How was the trip?” he finally asked. 

Donna set down her fork and closed the lid of her dinner tray before digging the ever-present clipboard out of her pile of papers. Roger was confused until she started reading from it, bullet-point observations as unemotional as though it had been someone else who'd gone. “Security is very tight around all the airports I was at, National most of all. Vital services are up and running, most people are back at work, but nonessential activity is at a standstill. The East Coast press has been extremely interested in the memorial services, especially the Ziegler service in New York and the one I was at in Connecticut. The Secret Service protection and local law enforcement helped keep them at bay during the service. You can probably expect even more coverage in the coming days as higher-profile figures are buried, but Carol thinks attention is going to turn to the state funeral and stay there for awhile.” 

She glanced up at him, then down, then back up again to meet his eyes. “It's like nothing I've ever seen out there, Mr. President.” Her voice was soft, a little wavery. “The whole country is waiting to be able to mourn. Even at the funeral, it was as though nobody could really grieve because nobody knows what's going to happen. Maybe the ceremony on Wednesday will help, but I don't know.” She set the clipboard on the edge of the desk and wrapped her arms around herself as though warding off a chill. 

Roger nodded. “I'm not sure anything's going to get better until we round up everybody who had anything to do with this,” he admitted. “I can go on television and talk myself b-” He drew himself up short, a little horrified that he'd almost said “talk myself blue in the face” after what they'd seen last week. “Talk until the cows come home, but it's not going to change anything. But people are strong. They'll get through it.” 

Donna nodded, not seeming to have noticed his slip of the tongue. She also didn't seem entirely convinced, but he let that go for now. He wasn't entirely convinced himself. Instead, he moved on to other matters. “I had an interview this morning for a Deputy Chief of Staff position. Do you know Angela Blake?” 

It was probably only because Donna was so tired that he saw her flinch slightly at the news. “I know of her,” she told him in that same careful voice. “I helped with the vetting and putting her file together. She's an excellent candidate, if you can convince her to take the job. Leo McGarry wanted her for a policy position in the administration but she was happy in the private sector.” 

“She wasn't exactly enthusiastic,” Roger admitted with a wry smile. “The suggestion was made that Deputy Chief of Staff for Strategic Planning is not a job for one person, given both the normal parameters of the job and the current circumstances. Angela said she is comfortable enough with the policy end of the job, but she doesn't understand how one person is expected to handle that and oversee Operations. What do you think?” 

“It's a big job,” Donna told him with a little shrug, “but that's what I'm for, that's what the assistant deputies are for, that's what the bullpen staff is for. The way things are worked just fine for almost two years, but I guess every new boss is going to change things up when they come in. It does worry me a little if she feels like she can't hit the ground running with operations. We're already pretty deep in the weeds with all the vetting we have to do,” she admitted candidly. “And it won't last forever, but for right now that needs the focus more than policy, given that we don't even have a Congress to negotiate with.” 

“I agree, and so does Angela, and Eric, and Margaret,” Roger replied. “That's why I've decided to split the Deputy Chief of Staff position. Angela will be stepping into the position of Deputy Chief of Staff for Policy. I'd like you to take Deputy Chief of Staff for White House Operations.” 

For the first time all evening, Donna looked entirely involved in the conversation. She also looked entirely dumbfounded. Roger waited patiently while she found her voice. “I'm sorry, sir?” 

“I'd like you to accept the position as Deputy Chief of Staff for White House Operations,” Roger repeated with a half-smile. 

“But-” Donna seemed like she was trying to organize a million objections into a logical line. “I'm not qualified! I'm nowhere near qualified, really. I don't even have a college degree!” 

“Margaret pointed out during our discussion this morning that the reason Josh Lyman was able to handle both policy and operations through his office was because you took so much off his desk to handle or delegate yourself,” Roger countered. “And in the past few days, I notice that you are the one who has stepped up and taken the leadership position in the Operations bullpen, with very little resistance. I need somebody who can hit the ground running,” he reminded her, “somebody who people will listen to from day one. I can't think of anyone more suited, degree or not.” 

Donna chewed on her lip for a moment. “I appreciate the offer more than I can say,” she finally told him, her voice sounding a little strangled. “It's a tremendous honor. But I don't think I can do it.” 

“Why not?” Roger asked, honestly puzzled. “You've been doing the job and more besides for four days under frankly horrifying conditions. This just gives you the authority on paper, not to mention an office as soon as we get things arranged-” 

This time her flinch was more pronounced, just before she stood up from her chair. That was a definite protocol no-no, even Roger knew that. He wasn't about to say anything though, just watched her as she crossed the room to stand next to the darkened fireplace. She stared down at the blackened gas logs for a few moments, then murmured, almost too softly to hear, “I imagine I'd move up a few slots.” 

“What was that?” he asked. 

She shook herself, turned partway back to him. “I've been doing the job because somebody has to do it,” she admitted, looking down and away. “It has to be done, and I'm not going to let him down now. But doing the job means shutting everything else down. I can't- I haven't-” She hugged her arms to her chest and finally looked him in the eye. “Sir, eventually I'm going to stop and think about everything that's happened and all I, all we've lost, and I don't think I'm going to be good for anything for a long time after that. I feel like I'm hanging on by a thread already.” 

Roger studied her for a minute, trying to judge how close to the edge she truly was. It was impossible to say, really. He hadn't known any of these people in their better days, so he had nothing to compare them with. Right now Donna looked like the January breeze could blow her away, but there was something tough inside her still or she wouldn't even be trying to turn him down. “Then I still need as long as you can give me,” he insisted. “I know you're in pain. I know a lot of people around here are walking wounded and trying to pretend they aren't. I hate having to ask so much of you, but Donna, who else can I ask?” The plaintive note in his voice wasn't feigned. “I need you here and doing the job for as long as you can, however long that turns out to be. I need you to keep serving your country.” 

There was silence in the room as Donna stared into the empty fireplace with silent tears sliding down her cheeks, and for a moment Roger missed the ticking of the grandfather clock. He knew what he was asking of her, and of Margaret, of Carol, of all the staffers who by rights should be mourning their friends and ideally getting some grief counseling right now. He suspected that in Donna's case there was a part of her that didn't want to heal or even go on without what she'd lost, but she was able to ignore it in favor of the emergency at hand. Finally she nodded once, sharply. “I serve at the pleasure of the president,” she managed, her voice raspy. 

He let out a breath of relief. “Thank you,” he told her. “We can work on the vetting lists again first thing in the morning. Right now you should get some-” 

He was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door from the Chief of Staff's office. The door opened to reveal a grim-faced Eric along with Simon Donovan, holding a few sheets of white paper. “Mr. President,” Donovan began immediately, “we just received a faxed communication from the terrorists. They've made a new threat.” 

Roger glanced towards Donna, who was already dashing the tears away and regrouping. Personal matters would once again wait for later.


	16. Mike Casper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Day 2 of WIP Week, and the prompt for today is "Your Favorite WIP." Now I find it hard to choose favorites between my work so I thought I might have a hard time with this, but somehow my parents came along and claimed they were voting my proxy and that this one is definitely my favorite. I don't even know how that works, but here is a chapter anyway! It's a little bit shorter than most of the others, but I gotta get the plot in here somehow! Feedback is my very favorite thing, give me more!

Even for a guy who'd grown up in Connecticut, Chicago in January was extremely fucking cold. Mike Casper had come to this conclusion within about thirty seconds of stepping out of the terminal at O'Hare, and it was not getting any better as the night wore on. He suspected it might also have to do with the fact that he could only vaguely remember the last time he'd slept, and his last three meals had consisted mainly of power bars, coffee and airline pretzels. Not even peanuts anymore, which would've at least had protein. He adjusted his scarf a little tighter around his neck and made a mental note to dig up an all-night diner as soon as he finished surveying this exceptionally thoroughly-tossed Kinkos. 

The fax had come in on the White House Press Office fax machine just before nine pm local time, where Carol Fitzpatrick had immediately given it to the waiting Secret Service agents, who'd appraised the President. Nothing about the single-page manifesto had been particularly illuminating, though the demand that President Tribbey and his Cabinet all resign their jobs or face summary execution was strong confirmation that they were still looking at the same group of Posse Comitatus types.The other demands, a hundred million dollars and complete immunity from any prosecution were really just window-dressing after that first one. The author claimed that if their demands were not met within twenty-four hours, another attack would be swift and unmerciful. It was not just the fat-cat politicians who needed to be purged, the letter explained, it was also the sniveling cowards who voted for them, and an attack could come at any time and any place. While Ron Butterfield had informed the President of the missive, the Secret Service had run down the sending machine. It had been surprisingly easy. Half an hour later, Mike was on his way to a nondescript little print-and-go store in downtown Chicago.

The police and agents on the ground hadn't been idle while waiting for him. They knew the fax had been sent just as the location was closing, by a man who'd hurried in and out without interacting with the counter staff at all. He'd paid with a kiosk card loaded with cash at a different store, sent his pages and hurried out, tossing the originals in the recycling bin as he went. The one employee who'd noticed him had kept an eye on him because he “looked like a tweaker, all nervous and sweaty. Sometimes they try and steal the machines or piss in the wastebaskets, you know?” Mike had not known that, but he was now grateful not to work at a Kinkos. They'd pulled the papers and the fax machine and were going over them for any trace evidence, though Mike suspected sweeping a public fax machine in downtown Chicago was going to be like getting DNA evidence off a port-a-potty. 

“Agent Casper, we've been able to isolate the video footage.” A local agent who looked about sixteen years old, whose name Mike couldn't begin to remember, jogged up to him with a sheaf of printouts. “He wore a hat, but the security camera is positioned just to the right of the fax and he looked around while he was sending. We've got a decent left profile and a three-quarter shot.” 

Mike looked over the papers. Young guy, white, nondescript, not too dissimilar from the guy who'd done the job on Capitol Hill. “It's a good start,” he told the agent. “Call up the known associates we've located at University of Chicago, show the picture around. Somebody knows him.” 

The agent looked at his watch. “Uh, sir, it's-” 

“Do you want to be the one to tell the President that we aren't making progress on figuring out who assassinated two-thirds of the federal government because we aren't willing to get a couple people out of bed?” Mike asked mildly. 

“No sir, I'll go and get that started.” The agent scampered off again. Mike was tired just watching him. When had he gotten so exhausted and decrepit? Probably around the time he'd stopped sleeping. He checked his own watch, tried to remember what day it was. Monday still, barely. Josh's funeral had been this morning in Connecticut. Mike hadn't gone, of course, he'd been back in DC herding a bunch of field agents around the Capitol building and trying to see what anybody else might have missed. He'd sent some flowers for Josh's mom, a real nice lady who'd taken her son's college friends out to lunch when she visited to make sure they were all eating right. A half-dozen Secret Service funerals were set for tomorrow, all together in one service so that those remaining could pay their respects without leaving the agency any more understaffed. Mike was friends with some of those guys too, would've gone to their funerals if he could've. He hoped they'd all count finding the monsters who killed them as a more fitting tribute. 

There wasn't actually a lot for Mike to do at the scene besides watch the action and make phone calls to the FBI lab, the Chicago police, and Headquarters. He'd been sent mostly to make sure that all the agencies would play nicely together so they didn't all come out looking like assholes for muffing the biggest investigation of their lives. Inter-agency cooperation was a bitch at the best of times, but in the worst of times it tended to become a lot easier. It helped that the locals in Chicago wanted no piece of this to fall on them if there were any further attacks, so were willing to take a subordinate helper role in the investigation. Around midnight, Mike was on his umpteenth cup of coffee and debating a Red Bull chaser when he was summoned into a briefing with the heads of all the local investigating agencies. 

“We've got an ID,” the Chicago police captain announced with weary triumph. “Knock-on-doors at the university got us the name Peter Howell Jr. We ran that through the system and got one pop in 1997 for possession of marijuana, guy went into a diversion program but we still got his prints. The prints matched a partial they got off the papers in the trash can, so we're confident this is our guy.” A mugshot was projected on the screen, a less-fuzzy and colorized version of the nondescript white guy Mike had seen earlier. “Howell was a student of Terrence Baylor as well, but he failed out and left the University in the spring of 1998. Nobody we talked to knows what became of him, we're still searching records for any traces.” 

“Good work,” Mike told him, jotting a few notes. “What have we got on the bodies from the farmhouse?” he asked the local FBI coordinator. 

“They were apparently more prepared for a last stand than we gave them credit for,” the agent said, consulting his own list of notes. “Nobody there had any wallets or personal effects on them, which is slowing down identification. We have identified two more students and one former professor from the University among the bodies.” 

“Okay,” Mike nodded, turning back to the police liaison. “I know you've already been making a list of anybody Baylor was associated with or who might be sympathetic to his ideals, but let's narrow down the focus to his contacts in and around the University. Don't be worried about getting people out of bed for this. Our time is very limited.” 

“How limited are we talking here?” the FBI liaison asked. “That list of demands... they can't possibly be serious about any of it. Having the President and the acting Cabinet resign on television, that's basically dissolving the government at this point! They must know it's ridiculous.” 

Mike shrugged. “Sure they do. They don't even want us to comply, they just want to have an excuse for the next attack. 'Anytime and anyplace,'” he quoted from the fax sent to the White House. “We believe the next attack will occur within the next two days and be on a nongovernmental target, most likely somewhere outside Washington DC. Chicago's actually not a bad guess, with most of these people being from the area.” 

“So what do we do?” the police liaison demanded. “How do we stop them?” 

“We catch them,” Mike said simply, spreading his hands. “Any building with an HVAC system is vulnerable, that means millions of potential targets. There's no way to tell what they're going to try and hit next. Our only hope is to head them off, and the clock's ticking.” 

There was a moment of heavy, unbroken silence. Finally Mike stood up. “I need to be in on a conference call with Washington in ten minutes. Please keep me informed on any progress or delays.” 

With that he walked out, proud he managed to refrain from massaging his aching temples till he was in the hallway. The President and the Interim Joint Chiefs had been chomping at the bit for updates since the fax had come in, one reason Mike had flown out to Chicago in the first place. He suspected that even with a name and a face to give them, they weren't going to be happy with what he had to tell them. The White House was locked down like Fort Knox and DC seemed unlikely to be the next target, but that was scant consolation. 

While he waited for the elevator to take him upstairs, Mike thought for a moment about the White House. It was such a fixture of Washington DC, but like most people who lived in the city, he paid it little attention most of the time. Just after the inauguration last year, Josh had called him up and offered him an after-hours tour of the place, all the stuff normal visitors didn't get to see. Mike had recognized Josh in full-swagger mode and hadn't really been in the mood to listen to a bunch of campaign war stories so he'd begged off, figuring he'd take his old friend up on it after a little of the shine wore off. But they were both busy and life moved fast, and it had just never happened. Now Mike wondered if he'd ever see the inner workings of the White House, and if he did, how different they would be from whatever Josh had been so eager to show him. 

Mike shook off the moment of melancholy and stepped into the elevator. He already suspected that he'd be in Chicago for at least the next few days, or at least basing out of there while they hunted these guys through the endless miles of cornfields. His gut told him that this was where the action was right now, and he just hoped he wasn't wrong.


	17. Early Tuesday Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Day Five of WIP Week! Today's prompt: "Your most popular WIP." I attempted several times to solicit opinions as to which one of my works in progress was most popular, but in the end I went with the WIP that is most popular amongst people I know in real life. Two more days of WIP Week, and look for the rest of Dulce et Decorum to be posted soon, since that project finishes up tonight. Hope you enjoy, please leave feedback!

The last security briefing had been at two-thirty that morning, more information on the computers recovered from the farmhouse standoff in Illinois. Someone, perhaps Baylor himself, had made a very sloppy effort to wipe all the data from the two hard drives, but FBI specialists were working quickly to piece it back together. Roger had listened intently to the speakerphone as Agent Casper described the Outlook database the team was reconstructing. He wasn't a particularly computer-savvy man himself, but the upshot was that they thought they could get the group's mailing list, and ideally a roster of its members. Somewhere in that information was the clue they'd need to find the terrorists, the only question was whether it would be before or after they struck again.

Visions of what an “after” would look like stuck in Roger's mind long after the briefing, leaving him to wander the empty hallways of the White House in the deep darkness of the hours before dawn. There was nothing he himself could do to prevent another attack. He certainly couldn't do what the terrorists demanded. Resigning like that would further destabilize a government that was already more than a little spongy in the middle, and the country couldn't afford that at all. The people conducting this investigation were all extremely talented and incredibly motivated, the best people in the world to be tracking down the bad guys. It was still frustrating as hell to be able to do nothing but wait and watch. 

There were still people working in the West Wing even at this hour, but the rest of the building was silent and dark. Alex accompanied him for awhile as he rambled through the East Wing, reading him tomorrow's schedule or reciting half-remembered tidbits from the White House guided tour he'd taken in high school, filling the oppressive silence with chatter. Despite the late hour, Alex seemed to be as energetic as ever, though that might simply have been on account of all the coffee he'd been drinking all day. Roger wanted to talk with him about the security briefing, or at least bounce ideas off him, but Alex didn't have anywhere near that kind of security clearance. The two secret service agents behind them never said anything at all, just followed them like shadows. 

Alex hushed himself as they walked through the Residence, in deference to the people hopefully sleeping there. The Bartlet-Westin children and their nanny were housed on the third floor, just a few doors down from Roger himself, while Zoey Bartlet kept her own room and Mrs. Landingham stayed in one of the guest rooms. Roger didn't know where Charlie Young was staying, whether he had a room of his own, but he suspected the young man would not be using it. He'd seen the pair a few times over the past couple of days, just in passing during breakfast or at bedtime. Zoey was obviously not doing well, looking smaller and more fragile every time Roger saw her. Charlie was always nearby, hovering without hovering in the way that particularly skilled personal assistants developed. In another few days they'd all be gone, back to their secluded hideaway in New Hampshire to hopefully grieve properly. Roger wasn't sure what he'd do when he was the only one knocking around this entire wing of the building. 

A light in the small Residence kitchen drew his attention and turned his steps. Inside he found Delores Landingham sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of herbal tea at her elbow as she paged slowly through a photo album. She looked up as he entered, then rose from her seat. “Mr. President,” she said simply. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Landingham,” he replied politely. He thought about simply moving on and leaving her to her reminiscing, but something held him back. He'd done nothing but leave these people alone for days now, and it was far more from cowardice than compassion. “Chamomile?” he ventured, sniffing the air. 

She nodded. “It helps me sleep.” Her accent was possibly the most New England he had ever encountered in person. Cocking her head, she regarded him with a look that seemed to go right through his skin and inside him. “Would you like a cup, sir?” 

“No thank you,” he demurred, “I had some tea earlier.” He felt more than heard Alex's very soft snort. Alex knew how Roger felt about drinking stewed flowers. He changed the subject, looking down at the album. “Family photos?” 

Mrs. Landingham nodded, running her fingertips over the open page. “I met Jed when he was just a boy,” she remarked matter-of-factly. “I worked for his father for, oh, fifteen years or so when my children were young. I remember when he met Abbey at college and brought her home. His father was furious that he would marry a Catholic girl and not a good Protestant, but the man always was a hypocrite.” She turned a page, but the book was angled so he couldn't see the pictures. “After I lost my boys and my husband, Jed made a place for me in his family. Lizzie and Ellie and Zoey were the grandchildren I never had.” 

She gave Roger a pointed look. “You may not want tea, but I can't sit down unless you do.” Abashed, Roger hastily took a seat across the table. Resuming her seat, Mrs. Landingham slid a cooling rack full of cookies in his direction. His stomach rumbled, reminding him how long it had been since baba ganoush with Donna in the Oval Office. “Go on and eat some of those, somebody ought to,” she ordered him, then gestured to include Alex as well. Alex needed no further encouragement before pouncing on a cookie like a leopard meeting an unfortunate rabbit. 

Once Roger took a cookie as well, the formidable woman at last seemed satisfied. “It's hard, it's very hard to lose people so suddenly, and so young.” He couldn't understand how her voice stayed so even, her eyes still trained on the photo album. “At least I still have Zoey. We'll have each other still.” Her eyes flicked up, locked onto his. “You'll keep her safe, won't you, Mr. President?” she demanded. “The man from the Protocol Office told us about the state funeral. You can't let anything happen to her.” It was both warning and demand. 

“Yes ma'am,” Roger said immediately, not even pausing to consider whether the president was allowed to call people ma'am. “Every precaution is going to be taken to keep her and the whole family safe during the funeral. Simon Donovan will probably be going over things with you tomorrow. Later today,” he corrected. 

“All right then,” Mrs. Landingham acknowledged with a nod. “That'll be good.” She studied his face, sipped her tea. “You're doing a fine job so far, Mr. President. I think Jed would be pleased to have you following after him.” 

Roger swallowed. “Thank you,” he managed. “I should let you finish your tea and get to bed.” He rose, and of course she did too, with a small smile. “Thank you for the cookie.” 

“You're welcome,” she told him regally. “Make sure you get some rest as well, sir. The Oval Office is no place for sleeping at your desk.” 

He chuckled. “I'll do my best,” he promised, then headed back out into the dark. 

As though the cookie were some sort of signal, Alex's energy seemed to flag abruptly. The third time he had to stop talking and yawn, Roger sent him down to the couch room for a nap. He wished he felt the same way, but though his body was achingly tired, he still couldn't sleep. He made his way down to the first floor and was about to turn back towards the West Wing when he saw the pair of uniformed Marines standing at attention outside the entrance to the East Room. Abruptly he remembered exactly what lay behind those ornate doors. There would be no public laying in state for this President, not with the security cordon around the building so tight, but Roger knew that a number of journalists, some friends and family members, and a few carefully vetted members of the public had been allowed into the building earlier for an open-casket viewing. It was a fine line to walk between safety concerns and conspiracy theories, he thought ruefully. What a strange way to live and die.

He stopped in front of the doors and looked at the Marines, then at his agents. “Can I go in there?” he asked everyone and no one at once. Nobody actually answered him, but the Marines wordlessly pushed open the doors for him. 

The East Room was one part of the White House Roger had actually been to several times while a Cabinet member. The largest room in the Residence, it was where the First Family hosted their parties and private receptions. He'd never realized how large and empty it would seem without its tables or decorations, with nothing in the room but a simple bier at one end of the room holding a beautiful mahogany coffin. Two more Marines stood inside, keeping vigil in the soft light from the dimmed chandeliers.

He walked across the room, automatically modulating his steps so they didn't echo quite so loudly in the large room. When he was just a few feet away from the coffin, he looked at these new Marines. “Can I... would you open it?” Again wordlessly, the pair turned and opened the top half of the coffin, carefully securing the lid so it would not swing back into place. 

Whoever had worked on Jed Bartlet's body had done an incredible job, one worthy of a man of his stature. There was no evidence of the trauma that had taken his life, no burst blood vessels, skin and lips the normal color, body laying as though in repose. Roger saw the soft glint of beads twined around the President's hand and recognized a rosary, this one handsome and smooth with use. He should've looked peaceful, as though he'd fallen asleep while praying, but despite all the makeup and the nicely tailored suit and the magnificent surroundings, he just looked dead. Roger stared into the coffin for a minute and then stepped back, nodding to the Marines. “Thank you.” 

He could hear the agents falling back into step with him as he turned around and walked out, could hear the soft thud of the coffin lid descending once again behind him. Roger hurried into the corridor while trying not to look like he was hurrying, but found that once he was there he couldn't decide where to go. He didn't even know why he'd gone into the room in the first place. Maybe he'd hoped to feel a sense of closure, maybe he subconsciously needed another reminder of the size of the shoes he had to fill. Maybe he just felt that Donna and Mrs. Landingham shouldn't be the only ones whose minds were filled with the faces of the dead. In any case, he had a job to do, and if he wasn't going to sleep, he might as well get back to work.


	18. Liz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I watched a sad documentary today, so you get a chapter of Ourselves and Immortality! I try not to let these melancholy moods go to waste. This one heavily involves two of the newcomers to the West Wing, so I hope you find them at least reasonably engaging. For anybody who might have forgotten in the hiatus between chapters, Eric is the new White House Chief of Staff, and Liz is the new Communications Director. Hope you enjoy, please leave feedback! This is by far my most difficult continuing fic, and getting feedback and input helps a lot.

By Tuesday morning, Liz had finally gotten into an interim office, but she wasn't sure it was a step up from working in the bullpen. Being the Communications Director for a White House in the middle of an unprecedented crisis was bad enough without doing it from an office two floors away from everyone else and that also happened to be slightly hotter than the ninth circle of hell. Alex's clever little map labeled it the 'Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue (Hazing Office)', which seemed pretty accurate. In the normal course of things she'd have bitched about it, as long and as loudly as it took til she was given something more suitable to her new position. Nobody took women in politics seriously if they weren't willing to stand up for themselves. But the office that was precisely suitable to her position was filled with the possessions of a man four days dead, and Liz was keeping her mouth shut. Never let it be said that she had no sense of tact. She had plenty of tact, she just saved it up for special occasions. 

She'd decided to leave everything well enough alone until after the funerals. There was a lot that needed to be changed, staffing to be moved around, procedures that would have to be different with the heightened security that she was sure would be sticking around. There would also be Liz herself and her new deputy, who would need access to their actual offices. After the funerals seemed like a good transition point for all of that new business. For now she had a team of interns to serve as runners, four phone lines and a dedicated fax down here, and a redheaded assistant named Ginger (because of course) who had reluctantly set up a temporary desk in the tiny anteroom outside the Hazing Office. There was no room whatsoever for meetings larger than three people, so those were all still in the bullpen or the room with all the glass-paneled doors or the Mess. It would work for now. 

Liz was going over paperwork when she heard the knock on the door. She was still trying to decide if she could believe the technical advice of whoever didn't realize that TDD and TTY devices were the same thing, not to mention figuring out who she was going to have to call to get a light-up fire alarm installed. The White House was exempt from most OSHA safety rules, but it still didn't seem sporting to let anybody get burned up in a fire for lack of an alarm. She recognized the knock right away, so she let him stew for just a minute while she considered her options. Just before he would've done the little clearing-his-throat thing that she absolutely loathed, she looked up with her very blandest smile on. “Hello, Eric.” 

Eric, caught in the preparation for a throat-clearing, coughed instead. “Hello, Elizabeth,” he retorted, his tone equally bland, if somewhat hoarse. “I heard they'd put you down here. It's, ah, atmospheric.” 

“Yes, if it's the atmosphere of Venus,” she parried. “What have you got behind your back?” 

“Behind my back?” he asked innocently. Once it would've charmed her; now she just rolled her eyes. He seemed to sense her mood for once and stepped further into the office. “I come bearing gifts from a cooler land.” He produced the items he'd been hiding: a tall iced latte that was already sweating profusely in one hand, and in the other a small desk fan.

She gave the gifts a skeptical look, though that didn't stop her from standing to take the latte from him. “And this is really the best use you could be making of your time?” 

“As Chief of Staff, I need to make sure my people are operating at peak efficiency,” he told her, politician-smooth. 

“Uh-huh. Pull the other one, it's got bells on,” Liz invited, taking a sip of the coffee. Dark and sweet, just the way she liked it. “You know,” she said conversationally, “you really don't have to sue for peace with me.” 

Now it was Eric's turn to look skeptical. “I don't believe you.” 

“We're coworkers now, and it's been years since we were anything more than that.” Liz set down the coffee and took the fan from him, setting it down in one minuscule clear spot on her crowded desk. “I don't know about you, but I have way too much to do to be brooding over shitty old relationships.” 

That got a slight wince from him, and Liz tried to pretend that it wasn't just a little bit satisfying. “If that's the case, then why am I still afraid Syl's going to poison my coffee?” 

“Because Syl wants to poison your coffee pretty badly,” Liz admitted. “You can't really blame her, she was really looking forward to being a bridesmaid. And she didn't get her money back on that dress, either.” When Eric winced again, she relented marginally. “I'll talk with her. She'll at least keep her petty but ultimately satisfying revenge on the back burner until we have the country up and running again.” 

“That makes me feel temporarily much better,” Eric told her sourly. 

“What are you so worried about?” Liz asked. “I've met Margaret Hooper, I'm pretty sure she can take Syl in a fair fight.” 

“Oh, I've no doubt of that,” he assured her. “I'm pretty sure Margaret has some kind of CIA training I'm not cleared to know about. I'm worried that Syl will spill the whole story and Margaret will be on her side.” 

“Well, I'm afraid that's just not my problem, Rocio,” she reminded him with a tight little smile. 

“I guess not.” He shifted uncomfortably, looking around her office. “Pretty bare in here.” 

“I'm not going to be in here long.” Liz took another drink of her coffee. The ice was already partway melted. “Have you got anything for me on the nominations yet?” 

“Nothing new on the Cabinet,” he told her, obviously relieved to be moving on to actual business. “We're refining the short list on the Supreme Court, we've got it down from fifty to about twenty.” 

“That's good progress. Strong contenders?” 

“Mendoza, obviously.” Eric seemed unwilling to sit down in the sticky-vinyl guest chairs so Liz sat anyway, letting him pace the tight confines of the office. He was perspiring lightly. “He'll be confirmed in a walk. The rest are harder. We're screening conservatives as well as liberals, the idea is to keep the 5-4 balance we'd have had with Mendoza anyway, and that means we're going to have to swallow some people we aren't exactly fond of.” 

“How bad's it going to be?” she asked, leaning down to plug in the fan. 

“We're floating Christopher Mulready.” 

Liz banged her head on the underside of her desk. “Ow! Shit!” She sat up and stared at him. “Are you shitting me? Christopher Mulready?” 

Eric shrugged. “His credentials are impeccable, and even the people who hate him agree he's a top-rate legal mind. We need the full spectrum of political views on this court if anybody is going to accept it as legitimate, and he's about as far-right as we're willing to go.” 

“That's pretty damn far,” Liz groused. “I'd better make sure my habit is pressed before I head over to the confirmation hearings.” 

“Come on, it's not like he's going to do more than write minority opinions,” Eric reminded her. 

“For now,” she reminded him sullenly. “He's a young man.” 

“I'll take that as a sign of confidence in our ability to rebuild the country,” he countered with a faint grin. 

“What about on the other side?” Liz asked. “Who's on the far left?” 

“Evelyn Baker-Lang.” Eric sounded much more satisfied about this one, almost smug. 

Liz's eyes lit up. “Now you're really shitting me. You're serious?” 

“We'll have to sell it pretty hard, but I think we can pair her off against Mulready as a fair compromise. All the other candidates fall pretty much between those two.” 

“What about Chief Justice?” 

“We're looking at Jeff David, Chief Judge of the Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals,” Eric said, his face a studied blank. 

Liz racked her brain for the details. “Jeff David, wasn't he a Lassiter appointee?” 

“He was,” Eric said evenly. “A bit of a prodigy really, got the top spot unusually early thanks to the rule that judges can't be Chief after they hit seventy. But again, top-drawer legal mind, great qualifications-” 

“He's a conservative,” Liz said flatly. 

“He's a centrist,” Eric countered. “He's made principled stands on both sides based on his reading of the laws, enough that nobody's going to be quite happy with him. And frankly that's what we need right now. We keep the majority, but we don't give the top spot to one of our own.” He gave her a level look. “Come on, think about it. Nobody wants to talk politics now, but that's not going to last. In two years, in five years, when people are adjusting to whatever the new normal is, they'll be able to start thinking about it again. They'll be able to change the President and the Congress to suit themselves, but the Supreme Court will be whatever we make of it. We need it to be something that the American people can live with, or we're building a time bomb into the foundation of our government.” 

Liz sighed. “Yeah, but Mulready? Really?” 

Eric laughed. “I'll make sure you don't have to sit next to him at the Red Mass, I promise.” 

“I guess that's about all I can ask for at this point,” she groused, then grew serious “How's the president doing?” 

Eric sobered too. “He's doing well. He's tired. He's coping with unimaginable strain and hasn't run screaming into the night.” 

She shook her head. “It's hard to imagine our Roger... I mean, even seeing him there in the Oval Office, it's hard. I watch him on the TV addresses, and he seems so calm and presidential but I don't know. I guess I just worry about him. He never wanted any of this.” 

“Yeah.” Eric slumped against the wall. “I think right now he's focused all his energy on the crisis at hand, and that's helping. He's always been good at drilling down and dealing with whatever needs to be done. It's when the crisis is over, or god forbid, when some other crisis comes along on top of this... that's when I'm going to start worrying. It's a big job to take on when you've never governed anything bigger than a classroom.” 

“At least he's got you,” Liz pointed out, extending a small olive branch of her own

It got a faint smile from him. “He's got all of us. First senior staff meeting is tonight, you ready?” 

“Oh, probably not, but I'll make do,” she replied lightly. “It'd be easier if you'd get out of my office and let me work.” 

“I guess I'll take that extraordinarily subtle hint as my cue to leave.” He pushed off from the wall and headed for the door, stopping just before he opened it. “Liz, are we really okay?” 

She gave him a very reluctant half-smile. “Yeah, we're okay. But for the record, I prefer iced mochas for bribes.” 

“I'll keep that in mind,” he promised, then walked out.


	19. Tuesday Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had hoped to get the next chapter of Ourselves and Immortality posted on November 2, but unfortunately that chapter, focusing on Bonnie and Cathy, was eaten by my computer when it was half-finished and I had no heart to reconstruct it. Since it was mostly character work, I have gone on without it, but I may eventually go back and backfill it as Tuesday afternoon. In any case, here's a new fresh chapter for your entertainment! I am now officially more than 10% done with Nanowrimo, a good start. Please send feedback, it lets me know what I'm doing right and wrong!

Roger’s initial plan had been to set the first meeting of his new senior staff in the Oval Office. It seemed more convenient that way and more like things had been at the Department of Agriculture, where he’d led mostly by means of quick, informal meetings with staff and visitors. The Oval Office was perhaps a bit more intimidating than his cozy corner at Ag, but he felt the spirit was the same. It was Sylvia who reminded him of the continuing “Let’s make sure everybody eats” staffer management initiative, and Sylvia who’d booked them into the Roosevelt Room instead, where a takeout meal could be spread out and nobody was going to drip tahini paste on the presidential seal. 

Just before the meeting Liz dropped by the Oval Office with her new deputy candidate in tow, mostly so they could go through the formality of an interview. He’d known Liz long enough to trust her judgement, and it certainly wasn’t as though they had time to conduct a lengthy search. He was a little surprised, though, when she came in with two people, a petite woman with light brown hair and a taller, slightly reticent-looking man with dark brown hair. They both hesitated on the threshold of the office, a feeling Roger understood completely. He rose from the desk and walked over to them, smiling. “Hi there, thank you for coming in on such short notice.” He had no idea which one was the Joey Lucas he was supposed to be talking to, so he kept his attention broadly focused. 

“Mr. President,” Liz said smoothly, “may I introduce Joey Lucas and her interpreter, Kenny Thurman? They just arrived from Los Angeles.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President,” Joey told him, her voice clear enough to be understandable but slightly muted, the accents in strange places. She raised her hands and began signing instead, with Kenny speaking for her. “I’m sorry we weren’t able to fly in any sooner, but traveling is complicated right now.” 

Roger’s smile widened as the memory clicked into place. “Of course, I remember you,” he told Joey. “You were an intern when I was starting out at Food and Ag, you came to talk to me about the feral cat population at Disneyland. Are you still working in the 46th?” 

“I was about to start as campaign manager for Bill O’Dwyer,” Joey told him, looking a mix of regretful and rueful. “I think he’s had second thoughts about running, which is too bad. The seat is open now and he’s a… a decent candidate.” The hesitation was in Kenny’s voice, and Roger wasn’t sure if it was his own or something carried over from Joey’s signs. “The Congressional races this year are going to be very interesting.” 

“I think that’s a safe assumption,” Roger agreed dryly. “Liz wants to bring you on as Deputy Director of Communications. You’ll be working with her to craft message, supervising the speechwriting team, and working closely with the Press Secretary to make sure the information we’re putting out is truthful, timely, and hopefully not going to scare anybody to death. It’s going to be a high-pressure job and nobody around here ever seems to get enough sleep or go outside. Are you up for it?” 

“Yes sir,” Joey said firmly, then let Kenny take over the translation again. “I look forward to the challenge.” 

Roger nodded, then looked to Kenny. “And you?” 

Kenny gave him a crooked smile, looking a little surprised to be addressed personally. “Well, I can’t break up the act, sir.” Joey smacked him lightly on the arm, mouth open in a silent laugh. 

“Good enough,” Roger decided. “It’s good to meet you both, now all three of you head for the Roosevelt room so I can toss you in the deep end. Senior staff meeting starts in ten minutes.” He had just enough time to finish jotting a few notes onto a yellow legal pad before Sylvia came to chivvy him out of the office. It wasn’t too difficult, the smell of takeout food was making his stomach growl from across the hall. 

The room was already full by the time Roger arrived, people chatting or selecting food from the wide assortment spread over the table. Through the glass walls he saw Liz introducing Joey and Kenny to Margaret, and Donna and Angela conversing intently over a pile of binders while they both ignored their plates of food. Margaret and Carol from the press office were eating and reading while Lily Mays stood in a corner with her hands wrapped protectively around a mug of coffee. Syl slipped by Eric as she walked into the room without even a single fulminating glare. Roger figured that was good progress, then wondered if it was also progress that he had enough mental processing space to be thinking about the personal lives of his staffers again. It probably wasn’t a bad sign, he decided as he walked into the room. 

“Everybody stay seated,” he called, but not fast enough to stop people popping from their chairs like cats hearing a can opener. With a small sigh, he waved them all back down and started assembling himself a plate of food. “Eric, is everybody here?” 

“Yes sir,” Eric responded promptly, “and may I just say, Mr. President, that while I deeply appreciate Kenny’s presence this evening, I’m still feeling more than a little outnumbered?” 

“Welcome to the new millennium,” Liz told him blithely, scooping up noodles with her chopsticks. “Maybe if you ask very nicely we’ll hire a male press secretary so you have another guy to play with.” 

“Two of the current short list are men,” Donna added helpfully, patting one of the binders in front of her. 

“I will continue to live in hope, then,” Eric decided. 

Roger sat down with his plate and opened a can of Sprite, signalling to everyone else that it was okay to sit and eat again. “Regardless of anybody’s gender, I’m confident we have a doggone good team here,” he told them all, “and I know I can count on all of you to work together for the good of the nation. With that said, I want to remind everyone of the rules.” He caught himself raising his fork didactically and made himself lower it. 

“The rules, sir?” Angela repeated, a faint smile on her face. 

“Don’t encourage him,” Liz advised, sotto voce. 

“Rule number one,” Roger began, ignoring the byplay. “All senior staffers must spend at least sixty hours at home per calendar week. This includes special advisors, deputy press secretaries, and the Chief and Deputy Chiefs of Staff,” he added, looking specifically at those notables. Donna blushed and looked away, Eric and Carol looked amused, and Margaret gave him a faintly mutinous “we’ll just see about that” sort of stare. 

“I’d just like to point out that I don’t have a home yet,” Eric said blandly, “and I’m not sure Angela or Joey do either. Are we exempt?” 

“No,” Roger replied, “and stop lawyering at me. Rule number two-” 

“Should we be writing these down?” Liz asked. 

“Already on it,” Syl promised, holding up her notepad. “I’m going to make laminated cards and glue them to your foreheads.” 

“Rule number two,” Roger continued, as though he hadn’t been interrupted, “all senior staffers must eat at least two and ideally three or more times per day. Coffee does not count as a food product,” he added immediately, forestalling Eric’s next question. “Nor do alcoholic beverages. Rule number three, nobody is to work more than eighteen consecutive hours without a six-hour rest break unless there is a clearly pressing national emergency, whereupon you will have to sleep extra hours after it is over. I am not going to have anybody starving themselves or making themselves sick right when I need you all the most.”

He gave them all his most presidential glare. “It’s now ten minutes after nine. Raise your hand if you’ve been working more than eighteen hours since the last time you slept in a bed.” There was a brief pause around the table before Margaret sighed and raised her hand. Donna was next, followed by Carol, then Liz, then Eric. He turned to look at Sylvia, who scowled before raising her hand as well. “All right then, you all know what you’ll be doing after this meeting. Now, let’s go around the table and talk about what’s happening in your departments, then we’ll talk cabinet appointments. And don’t forget to keep eating.” He caught some surreptitiously rolled eyes, but everyone picked up their utensils. 

The first forty minutes of the meeting were a little awkward and slow, people trying to find the rhythm of the room, not sure who knew what about each department’s business. Donna went first, succinctly laying out the progress of candidate vetting and the refilling of key staff positions in the West Wing. Joey and Angela, as the newcomers, were predictably quiet, while Liz took the longest of anyone as she laid out the communications strategy they’d be rolling out on Thursday. Adept at reading a room, she carefully avoided mentions of the state funeral tomorrow. 

That job fell to Lily Mays, who stammered a bit as she laid out the final plans for the funeral. The brief convivial mood of earlier slipped away entirely as Simon Donovan came in to briefly explain the extensive security procedures in place for the procession from the White House to the National Cathedral, and then during the service itself. There would be no burial in Washington, the body would be flown to New Hampshire by special courier so he could be buried alongside his family in a private ceremony. Roger and most of his staff would be expected to attend the funeral, especially in the absence of a vice president. 

“Are we sure that’s a good idea?” Eric cut in. “After the State of the Union…” 

Donovan gave him a look that was almost but not quite a glare. “The Secret Service has been over every inch of that building every twelve hours for the past two days. There will be trained personnel from four different agencies covering different aspects of security tomorrow, including and especially the HVAC system.” 

“I still don’t like it,” Eric insisted. “Especially since we haven’t got a Vice President or a Speaker of the House lined up yet. It’s going to make people uncomfortable.” 

“It’s going to show people that their president is a real person,” Liz argued. “And that he’s not holed up in a bunker someplace.” 

“People need to see him outside the White House,” Donna agreed, speaking up for the first time since she’d delivered her report. “How can we ask them to go about their daily lives if he isn’t willing to go out even with dozens of armed guards?” 

“Eric does have a point though,” Joey countered. “We need to make sure people understand that we’re not dangling the entire government out in front of the terrorists. Right now the President Pro Tempore is the first in line, right?” 

“That’s right,” Carol chimed in. “Arnold Vinick has accepted it until the full body can convene again. The Congress hasn’t been able to come to an agreement yet on the speakership.” 

“Seriously?” Liz demanded. “At a time like this, they’re arguing politics?” 

Margaret snorted. “The opposite, actually. Nobody will take the nomination for their party, so the votes are a disaster. I could be Speaker of the House if I wanted.” She shrugged at the looks from around the table. “The Constitution doesn’t require that the Speaker actually be a Congressman. Nobody wants to be next in line right now, or to be responsible for managing four hundred brand new Congressmen when they get elected. I think they’d vote for me.” 

“Let’s just table that option for now,” Roger decided, tongue-in-cheek. “I’m definitely going to the funeral, that’s not up for debate. I will abide by all the Secret Service restrictions, I’m not planning on being dumb about this, but I need to be there in this time of mourning. If nothing else, I’m not leaving Zoey Bartlet out there alone. I’m not going to require any of you to come-” 

“I think we’d all like to come, Mister President,” Liz told him immediately, a sentiment met with general nods around the table. In the end, it was agreed that Roger and his new Chief of Staff should be at the funeral, so Donna volunteered to stay behind and mind the shop along with Margaret and Joey. Lily would be attending to the former First Daughter and her entourage, and the others would fit themselves into the motorcade where they could. 

Once that discussion was done, Lily and Simon both excused themselves as talk turned back toward more mundane politics. “All right,” Eric began, “now that we’ve all eaten ourselves nearly comatose, it seems like the perfect time to discuss Cabinet nominations again. Donna, what have we got?” 

Per usual, Donna had the distilled results of a small mountain of research to pass along, with one manila folder per Cabinet position per staffer. “I’m sorry there’s so little right now,” she apologized, “I know it’s nothing close to what we were fielding for the last Supreme Court nomination, but once we fine down the lists a little bit more, we can do more vetting on the remaining candidates.” 

“This is a good start,” Eric assured her, “especially in the time you’ve had so far. Let’s start with Secretary of State and then work our way around. First candidate is Albie Duncan-” 

Roger looked up when Eric trailed off, then followed his gaze to the door. Calvin Traeger was standing there looking very grave. “Calvin?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. President, the deputy national security advisor said, “but you and Mr. Rocio are needed in the Situation Room immediately.” Dead silence fell on the entire room. 

“All right then,” Roger said, trying to maintain a veneer of calm control. “Everyone keep looking over the lists, and if I’m not back in an hour, you’re still on the hook for resting.” He stood, and so did Eric, and so did everyone else until they’d left the room. When this was over, Roger decided, he was going to make the standing thing Rule Number Four. 

General Larsson was waiting in the Sit Room, along with the usual collection of military personnel. “So what’s going on?” Roger asked as soon as he walked in, heading directly for his seat at the head of the table. It was unfortunate how quickly he was getting the hang of this room. 

“We’ve had a report in from the FBI office in Chicago that they uncovered another set of the toxin-dispersal devices,” Larsson told him. “Two dozen devices were deployed in the main trunk of the HVAC system in the Sears Tower, from the lobby to the top floor.” 

Roger sucked in a sharp breath. “Was anyone killed?” he asked. 

Larsson’s face relaxed marginally. “No sir,” he reported. “The alert was called in at seven pm local time by the maintenance team at the tower. What may have been the world’s most alert janitor noticed a misplaced Wet Floor sign and a box of tools that had no business being where it was. When they found metal filings under the vents, security evacuated the building and called in the FBI, who sent in a team in full biohazard gear. The building is still secured while they search it, but there were no injuries. 

“Thank god,” Roger murmured. “Any clues so far?” 

“The teams are still looking,” Larsson reported. “It appears that some of the security cameras were damaged or disrupted, but even that might tell us something about the perpetrators.” 

Roger nodded. “How many people would those devices have killed?” 

Calvin spoke up for this one. “It’s impossible to give an accurate count, sir, given that people are less likely to congregate in enclosed spaces than they were a week ago, and that the population of the building varies widely by time of day. But on a normal day, sir, around twenty-five thousand people go into the Sears Tower. Given the demonstrated lethality of the airborne agent, a death toll of ten thousand or more wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility.” 

“All right,” Roger said, feeling the number sink into his gut like a lead weight. “Keep me informed on any new developments. We absolutely have to find these people before anything else happens.” The moment the words left his mouth he felt stupid for stating the blindingly obvious, but the people around the table merely nodded. They all knew what was at stake, but at least for tonight, it was nice to have one win.


	20. Zoey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, one and all! I've been very busy IRL lately, dealing with school and kiddo and spending what time I have left with my gallbladder, and unfortunately that hasn't left much energy for writing. Your angel is once again my father, who said all he wanted from me for Christmas was more Ourselves and Immortality. I wrote three chapters and presented them to him in a handsome ribbon this morning, world premiere, and now I am sharing them with you! Look for Chapters 21 and 22 later today or first thing tomorrow.

_Wednesday morning_

“Zoey?” There was a light knock on the door before Charlie opened it, peeking inside. His handsome face was lined with worry, making him look much older than he had a week ago. “The cars are pulling around outside. They’ll be ready in five minutes. Do you need anything?”

Seated at her vanity, Zoey watched him in the mirror without turning around. “I’m okay,” she told him, mustering a wan smile that made her look ghoulish to herself. “Can you make sure everyone else is ready?”

He nodded and closed the door, leaving her alone again. She had a blusher brush in her hand as though ready to apply some color to her pale cheeks, but she’d picked that up five minutes ago and had yet to do anything with it, so she wasn’t optimistic. Anyway, if she was ever going to look horrible in front of the eyes of the entire world, it might as well be on the day she buried her father, right? It wasn’t as though people had watched Jackie O or the Kennedy children with eagle eyes, looking to them to set the mood of the entire nation… shit.

She smashed the brush against her face ruthlessly, giving artificial life to cheeks that felt numb and raw from crying. Doing her makeup wasn’t really so hard, as long as she didn’t think about her mom teaching her how to apply it back in the governor’s mansion in New Hampshire, or stealing lipstick from Ellie and Liz whenever she had the chance. Automatic, really, a little cheek color, eye color, lip color, and she looked almost like herself again, almost like somebody who hadn’t just lost her entire-

Stop. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it, don’t think about them, think about getting through the next six hours. By this evening she’d be in New Hampshire, and she could melt down there without anybody writing tabloid articles or pretentious thinkpieces about the President’s youngest daughter and her wild mood swings.

Zoey stood up and walked to the full-length mirror, studying the full effect. Lily had brought her three black dresses for the funeral because she hadn’t owned any already, and they were all awful. She hated herself a little for caring at all about the dress she’d be wearing today but it was better than thinking of- Stop. In any case, even the least bad of the lot was terrible and frumpy but entirely appropriate to the occasion, and that was what mattered. Lily had offered her a hat with a veil, which was very Jackie O indeed, but it had looked ridiculous on her and it wasn’t as though she wanted people drawing any more comparisons than necessary. Instead she had her hair carefully pinned and had borrowed her mother’s pearls (except she wasn’t actually borrowing, not really, not when it all belonged to her now because-- Stop.) which softened the awfulness of the dress and the severity of her hair a little bit.

“Zoey?” This time the knock on the door produced Donna, who stepped cautiously into Zoey’s private sanctum. She was also dressed all in black but it made her look almost ethereal, something Zoey could’ve hated her for if they hadn’t been friends. She’d spent a lot of time with Donna during the presidential campaign, mostly due to the tremendous and embarrassing crush she’d had on Josh back then. At the time, gossiping with Donna had made her realize that maybe Josh wasn’t the perfect guy for her despite his adorable dimples, while later on she’d realized that maybe he was the perfect guy for Donna instead. It had seemed inevitable that eventually Josh would pull his head out of the sand (or at least tear his eyes away from Mandy’s cleavage) and realize what he had right next to him the whole time. But now Josh was gone, and Mandy too for that matter, and Donna and Zoey were still here left behind and-- Stop.

Donna cleared her throat. “Mrs. Landingham asked me to come up and see if you needed anything. She’s downstairs fussing everybody else into the cars already.” A faint smile crossed her face, there and gone in an instant. “How are you doing?” she asked gently.

Zoey shrugged, watching her own movement in the mirror. “I dunno,” she admitted. “I’m trying not to, you know, think too hard about all of it right now. If I just think about the next thing to do, I’m okay.” The way Donna nodded suggested that she understood exactly what Zoey was saying. “Are there a lot of people downstairs?”

“Yes,” Donna told her, “but they’ll all be in the cars before you get there. You won’t have to be around too many people, and if you ever need a rescue, Mrs. Landingham or Charlie will be right there.”

“I’m not going to have to walk alone, right?” Zoey asked. “In the processional?” She knew this already, she’d sat through the meeting, but suddenly the idea of walking alone into National Cathedral was overwhelming. They’d already decided against a long processional amidst all the security concerns, thank god.

“Of course not,” Donna soothed. She walked to the side table by the door and poured a glass of water from a pitcher Zoey hadn’t even noticed, then handed it to Zoey. “Your grandparents will be with you, and Mrs. Landingham, and Annie. The staff will be right behind you, and there will be agents making sure that nobody bothers any of you.”

“I want Charlie there,” Zoey said, feeling her face rearrange into a pout. She wasn’t sure she was allowed to pout now that she was suddenly an adult, but she was going to anyway.

“Charlie and Deena will be right behind you with the staffers, and he’ll sit beside you in the private box,” Donna reminded her gently, not bothering to go through the list of reasons that Charlie wasn’t allowed to walk with her into the church. It was stupid, but nobody had the energy to fight right now, it seemed. “And he’s going with you this afternoon, right?”

Zoey nodded, sipping once from the glass before setting it aside. “He and Deena are both coming to Manchester, we didn’t even talk about how long. I don’t know what either of us are going to do up there, and I guess he’ll probably lose his job but it’s okay because I’m rich now…” Her voice took on a high brittle edge that warned her to stop talking.

Donna moved in and hugged her, the warmth of her arms enough to secure Zoey to the ground a little while longer. Both of them were shaking a little, neither one exactly a model of steadiness, but it was enough. “Charlie’s been so great,” Zoey murmured into Donna’s shoulder. “He’s been there pretty much every minute since it happened, but I feel kind of weird relying on him so much. We’ve only been dating for a month, and now all this happened, and I don’t know if it’s even fair for me to lean on him this way.”

“It’s a lot to ask of a guy,” Donna agreed, petting Zoey’s hair carefully, so as not to knock out the pins. She took Zoey’s shoulders and stepped back to look her in the eye. “But I think Charlie’s the kind of guy you can rely on. I think he wants you to, because guys like Charlie, they need to be the one people can count on. He needs you right now, too.”

Zoey nodded, allowing herself one dangerous sniffle before choking the rest back one more time. Six hours, she reminded herself. The instant she got on the plane, all bets were off. Lily had promised no press, even if she had to fend them off herself with a whip and a chair. That might be worth it to see, Zoey mused. “Okay, I think I’m ready.”

Donna smiled and squeezed Zoey’s shoulders once before releasing them. “Okay, I’ll let Mrs. Landingham know. Keep in touch, all right? See you downstairs.” She slipped quietly out of the room, leaving the door slightly open behind her. Zoey stared at the door for a moment without thinking about anything before her brain rebooted and let her move again. Drinking the rest of the water seemed like a good idea. She didn’t want to faint or anything ridiculous like that.

The slight creak of the door turned her around again. She pasted a little smile on and said “It’s like Grand Central Station in here” before she noticed the identity of her new guest. Annie was dressed like a miniature copy of her aunt, same awful dress (which looked better on a preadolescent, honestly) and little pearl earrings in her ears. She’d obviously been crying recently, but her eyes were dry for now.

“Ready to go?” Zoey asked quietly. Annie nodded without saying anything. Zoey took her hand and squeezed it, and the last of the Bartlet women walked down to find the motorcade.


	21. Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second of my three Christmas updates to this story, so if you didn't catch Chapter 20, read that first! Chapter 22 tomorrow!

The funeral proceedings had been endless, not that Roger had seen much of them. Simon Donovan had not been joking around when he’d said security would be tight; Roger felt like all he’d seen the entire day had been a row of black-suited backs between him and anything that might threaten him. All the Secret Service agents carried respirators now, one for themselves and one for their principal in case of another attack. They were bulky things, with airflow lines and battery packs, but the folks studying the toxin from the Capitol disaster were reasonably sure they would work if donned in less than forty-five seconds, and that was the important thing. He’d spent an uncomfortable half-hour practicing to let himself be wrestled to the ground and stuffed into the thing by very serious agents who could do it in less than thirty while holding their own breaths. It would’ve been farcical if he didn’t see the footage from last Thursday night playing in his head every time he went to sleep.

In any case, though he was loathe to argue with the people putting their bodies on the line to keep him alive, all the security precautions had made for a tedious day. Even after the ceremony, very solemn and sad in a National Cathedral packed with carefully vetted guests, he’d barely had time to say two words to Zoey and her family before they were off to Manchester on a specially chartered flight that was definitely not Air Force One even if it carried the body of the President and used one of the same planes. They hadn’t wanted to linger for the reception that passed for a wake, and he didn’t blame them.

There were many other people vying for his attention, though, and it had taken a cordon of Eric, Angela and Donna working in tandem to corral all the dignitaries who wanted to meet the new president and take his measure in person. As Secretary of Agriculture, Roger hadn’t exactly been a political non-entity, but he’d been about as close as you could come in the top echelons of government. It was amazing, he thought wryly, how many old friends he suddenly had. Gladhanding had never been Roger’s favorite activity, and the glowering ring of security made it even harder, but he hadn’t done or said anything egregiously wrong enough to earn Eric’s surreptitious facepalm. He counted that as a success. A few brief prepared remarks for the cameras, and then it was back to the safety of the White House.

Roger had been unprepared for the changes that had been made while he was gone. In the brief few hours out of the building, a wave of porters and movers had come in, removing all the Bartlet family’s personal possessions from the Residence and replacing them with his own. Roger had no idea who had gone in and packed up his stuff, or what kind of scheme they’d used in doing so, but it was a little weird to see his scruffy paperback novels in the antique bookcases and his clothes hanging sparse and forlorn in the armoire. It was more than a little weird to find his underwear and socks neatly folded into the dresser in the master bedroom and his toiletries neatly lined up in the bathroom. It occurred to him to wonder what condition he’d left the house in when he’d left for the State of the Union, whether his laundry was on the floor and if he had anything embarrassing laying around in the corners, but that way lay madness.

It turned out that the possessions of one long-divorced man who spent most of his time at work didn’t go very far towards filling the residential wing of America’s most famous house. Roger rattled around the master bedroom for awhile like a single die in a Yahtzee cup, trying not to feel like the ghosts of past presidents were leaning in towards him whenever he looked away or closed his eyes, trying not to hear President Bartlet’s advice about the toilet. (It really was a bit sticky, he’d noticed.) Finally, around two in the morning, he walked out in his pajamas past the emotionless eyes of the Secret Service, climbed the stairs, and went to sleep in his third floor bedroom.

He wasn’t the only one who’d had a restless night, from the look of his senior staff meeting. All his staffers were on time and prepared, but the White House veterans all looked at least a little hungover. Red eyes and headaches could’ve meant drinking or grieving, but Roger wasn’t about to wade into that minefield. He started gathering status reports instead. Calvin reported that the Sears Tower had been officially cleared and was slated to reopen later in the day. “The devices were not as sophisticated as the ones used in the Capitol attack,” he reported, clutching his notebook in both hands. He still wasn’t quite blase about attending meetings on this level. “They still contained the toxic payload, but the build was very different.”

“What does that mean?” Roger asked.

“The FBI is theorizing that Howell has the formula for the toxin and the basic idea for the devices, but he probably wasn’t heavily involved in the initial build,” Calvin replied. “He or whoever he’s working with planned another attack to build terror, but they were much sloppier than Baylor’s group. Not only did they leave clues for the maintenance staff, but we think as many as a third of the devices would’ve failed to detonate on command.”

“That’s good news, right up until one of the damn things accidentally detonates in a public space while one of those assholes is carrying it around,” Eric pointed out acerbically. “Are we any closer to actually catching them?”

“I haven’t got a lot for you on that,” Calvin admitted, “but the FBI guys looked more optimistic than they have recently.”

“They can do that?” Roger quipped. “Look optimistic?”

“It was a surprise to me too, sir,” Calvin deadpanned. “There’ll be another briefing this afternoon, we hope to know more.”

Roger nodded and moved on with the briefing. Donna and Angela seemed to be working together well enough so far; they tag-teamed on the discussion of Cabinet vetting and Senate confirmations. “Senate gavels in for the first time this afternoon,” Angela reported, “in the, ah, Indian Treaty Room at the OEOB. Fifty-four senators are expected to be in attendance, forty-six of whom will be sworn in by Senator Vinick before the session begins.”

“There’s been a lot of press interest in that,” Carol reported, consulting her own notes. “Right now all the attention is still on the funeral, of course, but people are going to be interested in seeing the government get back on its feet. I’ve got calls in to the Secret Service regarding press pool attendance there, but the Senate has its own press liaison dealing with it too.”

“With the Senate in session, we can start getting nominations finalized, right?” Roger asked.

“Yes sir,” Donna answered quickly. “Rather than formal hearings, which would take a lot of time we don’t have right now, Senator Vinick has been hosting a series of question and answer panels with the prospective nominees we’ve sent over to them thus far. He is hopeful that we’ll have our first confirmations by sometime tomorrow.”

“His suggestion,” Angela continued smoothly, “and I think it’s a good one, is that we hold one large swearing-in ceremony at the end of the week for all successful confirmations, as well as any senior staff members whose positions require it. It’s another step towards proving to the public that we’re open for business and getting our numbers back up.”

“That sounds good,” Roger agreed with a nod. “Lily, can you make that happen, arrange for a room to be available and whatnot?”

Lily nodded and jotted a note. She looked perhaps the worst of anybody there that morning, as though organizing the funeral and the departure of the Bartlet family had depleted every iota of energy from her body. Personal friend of Mrs. Bartlet, he reminded himself, that had to make things even more difficult. He ought to try and make sure she could get to Manchester for that funeral. “Yes sir. Also…” She trailed off as though not sure she wanted to complete the thought.

“Yes?” Roger asked encouragingly.

“I know it may not seem like a priority right now,” Lily said hurriedly, sounding like she wanted to get the words out as fast as possible, “but with no First Lady in the White House, there’s currently nobody officially in charge in the East Wing. The First Lady traditionally takes on the hostess role for ambassadors and foreign dignitaries, as well as official White House functions. It might seem frivolous, but it’s an important part of maintaining the decorum of the office.”

Roger blinked thoughtfully at that. “So,” he finally said, “are you saying that I have a legal obligation to start dating immediately, or will a suitable spouse be provided to me after vetting by committee?”

Eric snorted. “I’m sorry Mr. President, but the Constitution strictly forbids cruel and unusual punishment, especially of the innocent.”

Lily blushed and gave Eric a look that wasn’t entirely friendly, but soldiered bravely on. “Not at all, sir. The position of White House Hostess is traditionally filled by the First Lady, but that hasn’t been the case whenever a President is widowed or unmarried. Grover Cleveland and James Buchanan were both bachelors when they took office,” she pointed out. “A sister, an adult niece or other close female relative can serve as the Hostess with no difficulty.” She smiled thinly. “And you don’t even have to get her approved by Congress.”

“That’s a relief,” Roger told her, “or at least it would be if I had any female relatives. My mother died in 1993, and I’m an only child.”

“Which makes you a Presidential first,” Margaret chimed in helpfully. “No other president has been an only child.”

“Because this administration is definitely lacking in uniqueness,” Carol teased, smiling a little.

Margaret rolled her eyes but didn’t seem truly annoyed. “So what happens if the President doesn’t have an appropriate female relative?”

Lily shifted through the papers in her hands. “Well… it’s never happened before,” she admitted. “But I suppose someone else will have to be found. A close and trusted female friend, perhaps even a former First Lady could pinch hit if you could find one willing to step in. There are no actual legal requirements, you understand. The office of the First Lady has always been shaped mainly by tradition.”

Roger nodded. “I’ll have to think about that one,” he told her, “though honestly it’s going to have to wait till I’ve sorted through about two dozen other things.”

“But the duties of the office, sir,” Lily protested. “I don’t have the authority or the personnel-”

“Donna,” Roger interrupted, “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate in Operations, but can you temporarily fold the East Wing into that portfolio for the moment? Just so we keep all the clocks wound until I can give this matter the consideration it deserves.”

The idea didn’t seem to thrill Donna, but she simply nodded. “Yes sir,” she told him, already jotting notes on her ever-present clipboard. “Can you meet at eleven to talk about the swearing-in event?” she asked Lily, who nodded in turn.

“Excellent,” Roger said, clapping his hands and happily putting that awkward issue behind him. His two closest female friends were already working in the Administration, and he had no idea who else he could ask. And wouldn’t that be a hell of a conversation? ‘Hey, come live in my borrowed mansion under airtight twenty-four hour security so you can host my parties and let reporters badger you about your choice in clothing. Because we’re friends!’ Seemed like a tough sell. Much better to move on for now. “Liz, what can you tell me about the public reaction to the Cabinet nominations?”


	22. Arnie Vinick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the third of my three Christmas updates to this story! I swear I am still writing on this and my other WIPs, it's just been a very busy time IRL! I have notes taken for plot points that I am eager to show you! In the meantime, I hope all your holidays are very happy.

_Friday Afternoon_

Arnie Vinick had never been one to venerate the White House the way some people did. After so many years in Washington, with plenty of trips to that august old building, he’d come to regard it mostly as a suite of glorified offices that tended to be too cold in winter and too hot in summer because nobody would even think of tearing out a few walls and adding new insulation, and where all the corridors were too narrow. He had to admit, though, that his feelings about the place had changed in the past few weeks. Even with the security cordons still firmly in place, driving down Pennsylvania Avenue with the white building looming large in the windshield was a little more awe-inspiring than usual. There was something reassuring in the fact that, even with the devastation a mile down the street, this edifice stood firm, holding the line against terror and anarchy.

Maudlin thoughts, he knew, not exactly what he needed when he was supposed to be guiding a Senate rooted in the pragmatism of the extraordinary moment, but Arnie figured he should be forgiven at least a few after the month he’d had. Losing Cathy had been excruciating, no matter how sick and ready to go she’d been at the end. He’d contemplated retirement, not sure he could return to the job he’d loved for half his adult life, but even then he could hear Cathy’s voice in his head, teasing him for a sentimental old man. Still he’d dithered at home after the funeral, lazing in the sun and putting off his return to Washington, even to the point of missing his first State of the Union in well over a decade. Sheila, his chief of staff, had begun fluttering at him about it but it had been the attack that had poured cold water on his retirement daydreams. He was needed more than ever now, so he would serve. There was no real question.

Returning to Washington had been another shock of cold water. He’d refrained from watching the footage of the attack in replay (he’d seen it live, of course), and part of him still expected to see all his colleagues in the Senate rotunda, welcoming him back and trying to gauge his emotional state without ever having to come out and ask how he was feeling. But those colleagues were gone, flown off to funerals across the country, and the stately dome of the Capitol was dark, its doors and windows swathed in plastic and police tape. He’d held more meetings in hotel conference rooms in the past week than he had since his first Senate campaign. The eight survivors were five Republicans and three Democrats, none of whom had half his own experience, so he’d found himself elected to president of the tiny Senate with little debate or fanfare. That might change later on, but for the moment he was hanging onto the power and using it for all he was worth. Much better him, he figured, than someone with an agenda beyond “put this mess back together again.”

In the spirit of putting the mess back together again, he’d spent the past five days doing some of the finest politicking of his career, ruthlessly mentoring, flattering and bullying his fellow Senators and Senate appointees into as bipartisan a voting machine as he could manage. Politics would come later, he reminded them again and again, but not if the government collapsed because one branch refused to allow the other two branches to recover. Tribbey’s new administration had pulled their weight, sending well-vetted candidates without too many extreme views, aside from Mendoza of course. Mendoza didn’t count, not really, nobody was going to block the appointment of Jed Bartlet’s last nominee for anything, the one remnant of a Court from what already seemed like another lifetime.

Arnie Vinick was a man who believed in rituals, from the therapeutic power of shining one’s own shoes to the mind-numbing rite of passage that had been sitting through every graduation ceremony for each of his four children. It was the reason he’d chosen to individually swear in each of the forty-six new Senators he’d seated yesterday, looking each of them in the eye and making them swear to support and defend the Constitution in one of its most precarious hours. And it was why he was here in the East Room of the White House today, sitting in an uncomfortable stacking chair and watching as Roger Tribbey attempted to grow very quickly into the gravitas of his office.

It was still strange seeing a man Arnie thought of as a lifelong bureaucrat standing behind the Presidential seal. He’d known Roger Tribbey for years, worked with him many times back in Tribbey’s days at Food and Agriculture in California. A good man, a friendly man, prone to aw-shucks displays of collegiality and with an eternal bee in his bonnet about the quality and availability of school lunches. Certainly not the sort of man Arnie would’ve ever considered Presidential material, and yet here they were. And maybe what the country needed most right now was a good man who had never aspired to power.

Tribbey didn’t look right behind the podium but he was doing a decent job today, leading with the same gentle sobriety that had marked the week of his presidency thus far. He didn’t tell jokes or open with an anecdote to warm up the crowd, merely thanked them all for coming and spoke briefly of his gratitude towards the Senate for their hard work in confirming his appointments and to the people being sworn in today, for their willingness to serve their country through dangerous days.

“Many of you,” Tribbey told the knot of appointees at the front, “Have already spent long days and sleepless nights doing the jobs you’re being sworn into today. You know that it’s not going to be easy or glamorous, or even necessarily safe. Most of you know the people who had your jobs before you, and the losses are still fresh in your hearts. You might be stepping into shoes that feel too big to fill, in circumstances that seem impossible. Others of you will be charting new courses, stepping into an empty courtroom with the weight of history at your backs and the eyes of the world on your actions. Still others of you will be advising me on domestic and foreign policy, serving as my military advisors, and providing my office with an interface to all the vital infrastructure of government. There’s a lot I still need to learn, and I’ll be leaning heavily on you for guidance, in the firm belief that every single one of you has come to serve because you care about this great nation and the people in it. It is that spirit and that desire to serve that is going to see us through to brighter days.”

There was no applause, nor did Tribbey seem to expect any, but the silence was resonant, a waiting silence that said he had the room in his hands. He was a better speaker than Arnie had anticipated, and Arnie wondered who was writing for him these days. There was a brief shuffling at the front as the first group of appointees stood up.

Somewhat surprisingly, Tribbey chose to begin at what might be considered the bottom of the list of appointments, his own senior staff members. Those had been slam dunks through the Senate process, mostly internal promotions or people coming from Tribbey’s Cabinet office, nothing particularly exciting. With so many important jobs needing filled, nobody honestly cared who was staffing the President’s office so long as they could pass Secret Service vetting.

Arnie hadn’t really noticed until they all stood up how many of Tribbey’s new staff were women, some of them surprisingly young. If he hadn’t known Tribbey he might have wondered about that, but people had bigger fish to fry right now than whether the President was surrounding himself with beautiful women at the office. Another year or so and people might start asking questions, but that presupposed the happy thought that things would get back to normal enough for people to be starting salacious rumors for excitement. Several of them had tears in their eyes as they were sworn in, but all of them swore firmly and shook hands with the President before heading to the back of the room and back to work.

The Joint Chiefs were next, all of them simply confirmations of the men and one woman who’d been named in the immediate aftermath of the disaster. Nobody felt like changing horses midstream when it came to the military, and all the picks had been solid enough for Arnie to nudge any indecisives into line. The Cabinet was next, though only three of them today; they’d been a bit more trouble to vet and debate in spite of the expedited schedule.

Most of the attention and contention had surrounded the Secretary of State, who’d be third in the line of succession until a Vice President and Speaker of the House were installed. Albie Duncan was a solid choice in terms of policy experience and knowledge; he’d worked in just about every administration for the past thirty years, no matter who was in power. A Republican by party, his nomination was also a nice bone to throw to the opposition to assuage worries that they wouldn’t be heard in the reconstituted government. Most of the worries had centered around his age and health, really, in an atmosphere where everyone took seriously the possibility that a Cabinet member might rise to the big chair. Two old men (though Arnie wasn’t about to apply that label to himself, not when he was healthy as a horse) in the second and third spot made some people a bit nervous, but Duncan was undoubtedly the best man for the job at hand.

Finally it was time for the biggest draws of the day, the first two Supreme Court confirmations. Roberto Mendoza was first, looking sober but determined as his wife held up the Bible for him to swear on. His young son was present as well, watching with wide eyes as his father ascended to the highest court in the land. Arnie felt conflicted, watching a man he’d had every intention of voting against taking office based partially on work he himself had done, but it was the right thing to do. Josiah Bartlet deserved this last legacy. He’d just have to hope that Mendoza remained the leftmost outlier for awhile.

After him came the new Chief Justice, Jeff David from Illinois. He was a sturdy man in his early sixties, silver hair and a well-groomed beard, looking just slightly ill-at-ease amidst all the pomp and circumstance of Washington. His wife was with him as well, his three adult daughters and their families looking on for the swearing-in. Arnie liked Judge David, though he’d only spoken to him a few times during the Senate panels. A thoughtful and studious man who tended towards conservative ideals but was scrupulous in applying and upholding the law of the land, he was the sort of man who might have left the bench to become a law professor, but who’d never have aspired to politics. He was just the sort of hand Arnie wanted on the Court’s tiller at a time like this. The rest of the Supreme Court nominations were sure to be a tougher fight and take considerably longer, but at least the bench was not vacant now. It was a good start.

When the ceremony was over the attendees began to disperse, heading back to their jobs, over to speak with the press, or off to the reception being set up for the honorees. Arnie was debating trying to nab some canapes before the press descended like vultures, when the President’s new chief of staff intercepted him, leading him to the front of the room. Roger Tribbey was waiting there. “Senator Vinick,” he said warmly, “I wanted to thank you personally for all of your work this week. The country owes you a debt of gratitude, and so do I.”

Arnie smiled a little, shaking his hand. “It’s a republic,” he quoted, “if you can keep it. I’ve done what I can to put you on the right track, Mister President, and the rest is up to you. Good luck.”

With so many other people seeking the President’s attention, Arnie was easily able to slip away to the reception, where he collected his spinach puffs and stood aside to contemplate the day’s work. There’d been a time a few years back when he’d considered throwing his hat in the ring for 98, back before Cathy had gotten so sick. He wondered now what might have happened if he had. Would he have lost the race and his Senate seat both and now be retired to obscurity and good works in California? Would he have won and been the one doubled over the podium last Thursday, gasping his life away in front of the American people? Both were possible, he supposed, or a million other paths of probability. No use thinking what if right now. So many dead friends, so many dead enemies, so much water under the bridge in a river that only flowed one way. There’d be another election cycle in two more years, and who knew what that field would look like and how the race would go? God willing, they’d all be around to see it.


	23. Sunday Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I am the worst human being, but here is a chapter anyway! Homeschooling, creative writing class that wouldn't let me submit fanfiction as assignments (curses!), travel, and kittens have been sapping all my energies. I'm still working to finish this one, and we are coming towards the end! For the first time, I have the last chapter in my head and I'm pretty happy with it, so it's just a matter of getting there. Happy Mothers Day, to anybody celebrating! (This in particular is for my very own mom, who asked for a chapter last month IN MY BIRTHDAY CARD. Love you!)

Roger woke in the third floor bedroom just before dawn on Sunday morning. The momentary vertigo of waking in a strange place was finally easing off, and he just pretended that the Secret Service agents weren't silently judging him for his bizarre sleeping arrangements. He was the President of the United States, Roger figured puckishly, if he wanted to sleep in his own attic, who was going to tell him he couldn't? The stairs were all the exercise he was going to get with his morning jog off the agenda for the foreseeable future.

During the sleepless hours of Friday night he’d wandered through the whole of the Residence and counted eleven full bedrooms, most of them with their own attached bathrooms. He’d thought briefly of offering some of them to his staffers, make the whole place one big slumber party, then decided against it. All these people theoretically had homes, it would probably be nice if they took the time to visit them once in awhile. 

He'd given most of the senior staff an entire day off on Saturday, then made it mandatory when it became clear they thought he was kidding. It wasn't healthy for anybody to work these kinds of hours under this sort of stress with no breaks. Eric, Angela and Joey were fresh enough that they could hold down the fort for a weekend. Most of them had elected to fly up to New Hampshire for the private funeral being held for the Bartlet family, which Roger wasn't sure counted as an actual break, but might let them start to process some grief. He hadn’t gone himself, of course. The last thing the family needed was the security and press surrounding a presidential trip, even if Simon Donovan wouldn’t have knocked him down and sat on him for trying to leave the building. 

Instead he'd spent most of his first day off reading briefing books, feeling like a freshman desperately cramming for midterms in a class he’d never even attended. Eric had wandered in and out, sometimes helping, sometimes complaining about how impossible it was to find a place to rent in DC when none of the realtors wanted to go out and show their properties. “I’m packing a three-man security team everywhere I go!” he’d informed Roger, sounding very aggrieved, “and it’s not safe enough for them! Either that or they don’t want to rent to me because they think I might be the next target. I can’t win for losing, swear to god.” Even as he’d rolled his eyes, Roger had appreciated the sheer mundanity of the problem, a little bit of normal life in the middle of all the surreality. He’d slept a little better that night, and for once hadn’t been roused by nightmares or a Sit Room meeting. 

In his old life, back in the ancient world of two weeks ago, Sunday mornings were Roger’s favorite time of the week. He’d sleep late, eat a leisurely breakfast, have a long hot shower that in Washington didn’t even make him feel guilty over wasted water. If the weather was nice and the mood was right, he might walk down to the Unitarian church a half-mile from his home and take in the service, get a little food for thought to carry him through the week and perhaps put a little money towards some worthy human rights cause. A little lunch to counterbalance the healthiness of the walk, and then home for just a few hours of work before television, dinner and bed. Those days might be long gone, but maybe he could swing a hot shower and leisurely breakfast with so many people out of the office. 

He got the shower, at least. No sooner was Roger sitting down to the slightly runny scrambled eggs he’d made from the carton in the refrigerator (ignoring the fact that he was apparently supposed to finish President Bartlet’s groceries) than Alex appeared in the doorway. He was holding a cordless phone and looked just about as uncomfortable and apologetic as Roger had ever seen him. “Um, telephone for you, sir,” Alex began, half-proffering the phone, but looking as though he might snatch it back. “It’s, ah, it’s Louisa.” 

Roger’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “Uh,” he managed. “Louisa Hill?” 

“The one and only,” Alex confirmed. “And since it’s still oh-dark-thirty in California, I’m guessing she’s got something on her mind. Hope she’s not looking for alimony, cause you actually don’t get paid that much more now-”

“Thank you, Alex,” Roger sighed, reaching for the phone. “Please tell me you have her on hold and she’s not hearing this.” 

“Line three, boss,” Alex confirmed. “Now I’m just gonna go before you forget yourself and call her Lulubear and embarrass all of us.” He scurried out before Roger could come up with a scathing response for that, leaving him alone with the phone. 

He thumbed it on and raised it to his ear. “Hello, Louisa,” he said, trying to keep his voice as pleasantly neutral as possible. He was a politician, that wasn’t so hard. 

There was a moment of dead silence on the line. “I just realized I have no idea what to call you,” Louisa’s so-familiar voice came over the phone. 

Roger cleared his throat. “Well, under the circumstances, I think you should probably call me Roger,” he offered. “Unless you’re going to yell at me, in which case-” 

“Of course I’m going to yell at you!” Louisa snapped, her voice nearly a snarl. “I’ve been in lockdown for three days now, so hard that I can’t even go out to the store for groceries! They took my phone and my computer because they didn’t want anybody tracking me down with them! I had to beg a cell phone off a very polite young man with a really large gun who insists that he’s here for my protection because my ex-husband is the president now and somebody might try and asphyxiate me to bother him!” By the end of her rant, the snarl had edged dangerously close to a sob. “What the hell, Roger? I mean… what the hell?” 

He took a deep breath. “Yeah…” he finally said. “My thoughts exactly, Lulu. Are you okay?” 

There were a few quiet moments when he could hear her doing some breathing of her own. “I’m okay,” she finally replied. “Just scared and angry and… is this what it’s going to be like from now on, Rog? Is this the world?”   
“I don’t know,” Roger admitted. “I mean, the protection detail won’t last forever, I’m pretty sure. It’s an excess of caution until they catch the guy who’s behind all this. You’ll be able to go home soon, I promise. The rest of it…” He was silent a minute. “I don’t know what the world’s going to be like from here,” he told her quietly. “I never expected I’d be here.” 

That got a laugh out of her, humorless and short. “Long way from the married student housing to the White House, huh?” There were shifting noises, and Roger could imagine her on the other end of the line, crossing her long legs and slouching back in her chair. “You gonna do something about school lunches now? My niece sends me pictures of hers from the fourth grade, they’re still shit.” 

“They’re on my priority list,” he assured her. “Hell, they’re the closest thing to a campaign promise I’ve got. Soon as we finish patching together the government, I’ll get right on it.” 

“You better.” He could hear her unbending now, relaxing. Their marriage had been tempestuous, to say the least, and probably ill-advised at the time, but it was honestly good to hear from someone from his own history, someone who’d been family. “So, if you’re the president and we used to be married, does that make me the vice-president?”

“I’m going to have to check with the White House Council on that one,” he told her, smirking into the phone. “You could be hostess if you want. I’m sure you’d be good at it. Lots of fancy dress-up parties, shmoozing rich strangers…” 

She made a noise not unlike a cat faced with a shower. “That’s a hard pass, thanks. You promise these guys are going to let me go home soon? I’m not going to be disappeared somewhere as a warning to any future Mrs. Tribbeys?” 

“Louisa…” Roger rolled his eyes. “I solemnly swear I’m not using my powers as Commander in Chief to harass you, even if I’m still annoyed with you for keeping all my eight track tapes when we split up.” 

“You didn’t even have a player--” Louisa cut herself off with obvious effort. “All right, thank you. I’ll hold you to it, too. Remember I know where you live.” 

“You and everyone else,” he pointed out. “Take care, Lulu.” He ended the call and was not surprised to see Alex reappear in the doorway fifteen seconds later. 

“All good?” Alex asked. “All fingers and toes accounted for?” 

“For now,” Roger assured him. “Could you make a note to find out from Simon Donovan how long Louisa’s going to be in protective custody? She’s getting a little antsy.” 

“Will do, sir,” the assistant promised. “And is it weird that this is the most exciting thing that’s happened in the past day and a half? I keep waiting for something crazy to happen.” 

Roger sighed. “I’m going to go ahead and mark this moment on my calendar as the official end to our quiet weekend,” he told Alex, who had the grace to look chagrined. “Better go ahead and make some more coffee.” 

He finished his cold, rubbery eggs and half a cup of coffee before the call to the Sit Room came in. With an arch look for Alex, Roger put on a sweater and shoes to head down for work. The Situation Room was always dark, but today it was very crowded as well. Along with the usual suspects were several men wearing FBI badges and a few more with the generic red A on their chests, smashing themselves up against the walls so as to take up less room. 

“What’s the story?” he asked as he went to his seat, trying to project calm presidential authority while not wearing any socks. 

“We have an update on the Howell situation,” General Larsson told him, his voice crisp, if a little crackly from fatigue. Not everyone had been having a quiet weekend. “Agent Casper from the FBI is here to brief you on new developments.” He gestured to an earnest-looking man with a receding hairline and circles under his eyes dark enough to cut glare. The guy didn’t look entirely thrilled to be singled out, but he stepped forward gamely. 

“Nice to meet you, Agent Casper,” Roger said, shaking the guy’s hand before taking a seat. If he didn’t sit, nobody would, and somebody would probably fall down. “What have you got?” 

“We found Peter Howell’s lab,” Casper told him, cutting right to the chase. “He was holed up in a residential building in Rockford, about an hour west of Chicago. We obtained a warrant and raided at 0330 hours this morning and were able to secure the facility and a large quantity of notes. It looks as though both Baylor and Howell kept extensive written notes, possibly to avoid any danger of hacking. Unfortunately, Howell himself eluded us, and we lost two agents to the toxin.” Casper’s pursed lips spoke of things unsaid, and his unhappy eyes indicated that somebody was getting their ass chewed off for it. 

“Do we have any idea where he’s going?” Roger asked. 

“We have theories,” Casper told him, “but not many facts. It’s possible that he may head back to the DC area in the next few days, or he may choose to retreat and try to regroup. We’re listening to all the chatter we can get among survivalist and posse comitatus groups, in case he tries hiding with one of them. But that’s not the biggest problem.” 

At Roger’s raised eyebrow, Casper cleared his throat. “We have reason to believe that Howell may be carrying an unknown amount of the aerosol toxin, as well as a prototype dispersal device designed to be worn on the body. Theoretically, such a device could be hidden under a bulky coat and carried almost anywhere.” 

“Jesus,” Roger murmured. 

“The notes indicate that the device wasn’t completed, that Baylor and his students set it aside because it wasn’t as far-reaching as the placed charges and because even a gas mask might not provide protection for the wearer with such a concentrated dose. They were willing to die for the cause, but they wanted a bigger return on investment,” Casper explained, his voice dry. “So we’re not sure he has it, or whether it will work, or if trying to use it will kill him, but our assumption right now is yes to all three. We estimate that the device could kill anybody within 500 feet if used within an enclosed space.” 

Eric spoke up for the first time. “How likely is Howell to try and go out in a blaze of glory at this point?” 

“Our profilers say there’s a high probability. The engineering and chemistry notes we’ve analyzed so far are mostly Baylor and Lattimer, the plant at the Capitol,” Agent Casper informed them. “We think Howell may not know that much about the science, and that’s why the Sears Tower devices weren’t as reliable. If he’s realized how far in over his head he is, he might decide to go all-in on one big attack.. But the big question is still who else might have the formula.” He grimaced. “If he managed to pass that along, gas masks might be the hot new fashion accessory for next year.” 

“Right.” Roger grimaced too. “Do whatever you can to increase public security without causing any more panic. We’ve only just gotten people to start coming back to work. I swear, when we catch this guy, I’m buying everyone in this room a beer.” 

By the time he was done in the Sit Room it was lunchtime, for all he’d entirely lost his appetite. Erik trailed after him like a dark cloud through the halls, working his Blackberry with both thumbs. Alex and Margaret were both waiting in the Outer Office, white takeout bags in hand. 

“The trick is,” Margaret was saying as Roger and Eric rounded the corner, “is to offer them something a half-hour before mealtime, so that even when they inevitably say they aren’t hungry, they start thinking about- Good afternoon, Mr. President!” she chirped, shifting conversations with barely a hitch. Alex, on the other hand, nearly dropped his takeout bag. 

She gave him a nudge in the ribs and kept her attention focused on Roger and Eric. “The weekly staff meeting is normally on Friday afternoon, but Sylvia and I moved it to today so it wouldn’t conflict with the swearing-in ceremony. You’ll want to make sure to get something to eat before that, because Ed is bringing barbecue.” Her face was completely serious as she delivered that non-sequitur before herding Eric away, neat as a prize border collie. “You’ll be happy to know that today is Grenadan Independence Day, so I’ve picked you up roti and coconut cookies in honor of…” Her voice trailed away down the hall. 

Alex stared at Roger for a minute, then jerkily extended the arm holding the takeout bag. “Here, it’s food. You should eat it.” He cast one fearful glance over his shoulder, then stage whispered “She is so scary!” 

Roger considered him for a moment. “Yeah,” he finally decided. “Do I get to eat now, or do you withhold it for half an hour to make me want it more?” 

“I’m not sure,” Alex admitted. “If I give it to you now, can I have one of your cookies?” 

“Deal,” Roger agreed, taking the bag. “And get me the briefing books on DC public safety. I have a bad feeling we might need them.”


	24. Peter Howell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Father's Day! We're finally closing in on the end of this one! Thanks to everyone who has been sticking with me for all this time!

Traffic in Washington DC was a shitshow. It had never been good, but with half the downtown streets currently bisected by military roadblocks, the standstills began at the exits off the beltway and pretty much never stopped.. Half of Peter’s brain rejoiced at the signs of enduring chaos and paranoia, even as the rest of him writhed in frustration at the delay. His cab driver seemed entirely unaffected, racking up the fare while drumming his fingers idly to some truly hideous foreign music. Peter thought of the beautiful little canisters tucked into his backpack and imagined how great it would be to kill the guy, even as he knew he couldn’t afford the waste. Frustration was pretty much his default state of mind these days. 

The beauty of Peter’s plan in the first place had been that he wouldn’t have to personally visit DC at all. He hated DC and everything it stood for, the bloated illegitimate government, the masses of bureaucrats swarming the city like fat ticks on a dying dog. He’d been more than willing to let Derrick carry out Peter’s meticulously drafted plan, right up until the point thatt Derrick had failed to get his incredibly stupid ass out of the Capitol building and had succumbed to a lungful of tainted air. Maybe he was trying to be a martyr, maybe he’d screwed up one of the timers, it didn’t really matter. That had not been the plan at all. Derrick was supposed to stick around and design the next batch of weapons, for fuck’s sake! It was so goddamned hard to find good help these days. 

That had been bad, certainly, but everything had still been salvageable till the feds had started drawing connections between Derrick and the rest of them, and Professor Baylor had decided to go all Heaven’s Gate instead of facing the discomforts of actual revolution. Suddenly, instead of a small and dedicated cell of patriotic citizens trying to change the world, Peter was left on his own. He was holding the bag and everything he could salvage from Derrick’s lab, half the world on his heels. That was the problem in working with crazy geniuses, Peter figured, trying to be philosophical about it. Sure, they might have the energy and drive to change the world, but at the end of the day, they were still fucking crazy. 

The cab let Peter off a block from his destination, leaving him to raise a nondescript black umbrella and go the rest of the way on foot. Exactly how he’d planned it, but now it annoyed him too, and so did the rain dripping into the little alleyway he chose to watch from. His shoes were going to be ruined after this. Not that he’d be around to care, he supposed. 

He himself hadn’t been a biochemist or an engineer, he’d been something even more important: the idea guy. None of those smug academic bastards would’ve ever done anything but post on newsgroups and try to avoid their taxes if it hadn’t been for Peter coming along and pointing out that their unique skills could be used to make a much bigger bang. Even the most powerful engine is nothing without the hand to turn the key, right? He’d had such excellent plans, too. The Capitol as a coming-out party, then a few more big targets to bring the country to a fear-filled stop as the confidence of citizen sheep in their government watchdogs was obliterated. It would be so simple to start a revolution then, break the country into small, local governments where men could truly have liberty and only the worthy survived. And of course he and his friends would have the weapons in hand to make sure nobody got any bright ideas. They’d just needed more time, and for Derrick not to have been such a complete asshole. 

Peter had done his best to continue on his own. It hadn’t been that hard to sneak into the Sears Tower and plant the devices, not with his skills. It should’ve been a spectacular show, something to throw an already demoralized country into panic. He still had no idea what had gone wrong there, but it had proved a colossal, costly disappointment. Not only had he lost all the canisters deployed, but somehow the feds had managed to stumble onto some tiny fragment of evidence that had led them to Derrick’s lab. The lab where Peter had been living while he tried to make heads or tails of Baylor’s notes and Derrick’s diagrams, the lab where all the precious remaining equipment had been stored. Peter had escaped with his life, but it had cost another couple of canisters and he hadn’t been able to take any of the plans with him. It had been… bad. Yes, that had been a very bad day. 

In the end, it all came down to this. One last gesture, one last chance to, if not remake the world, at least to leave a mark. Peter had already insured his immortality in the history books, but damned if he would die a chump like Baylor, cowering from the cops. In a perfect world, he’d have hit the White House, decapitated the government a second time, and gone down as the man who assassinated two worthless Presidents. He’d tried so hard to figure out how to make that work, but it just wasn’t going to happen. Too much security, too few people in and out. Even the food delivery trucks were stopped and searched, the drivers patted down, the cargo emptied and searched before being carted in on hand trucks. He’d never make it, and there was no glory in getting gunned down by a security guard in the Rose Garden or something stupid like that. 

It was starting to rain harder now, and it was already ten past seven. Where the hell was she? Nobody was reliable anymore. Peter turned up the collar on his coat and tried to edge his way out of the growing puddle in the alley. On a normal day, DC would be full of soft targets, but half the city was still shut down. National Airport would’ve been great, all those busy travelers, but it’s still all but deserted. He’d thought about the Smithsonian, walk right into the Museum of American History and give them a one-of-a-kind closeup of their next big exhibit, but all those places were closed down too. The Mall looked like a fucking armed encampment this week. But the city was still full of people, and as long as those people still had to work and shop and travel, not everything could be shut down. He’d have his chance. 

Motion at the door of the apartment building caught his attention. Finally! The woman who stepped out was of medium height and dark-haired, hunching a little under her candy-striped umbrella as she hurried for the parking lot. Peter left his hiding place, walking with casual purpose on a path designed to intersect. He tilted his umbrella just a bit and gave her a hard bump with his thigh as he passed, sending her stumbling. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed,, radiating sincerity in every direction as he crouched to help her up. “I had my umbrella down and I didn’t even- are you all right?” 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” The woman, Carol, the one with the pretty voice who told lies for the government, gave him a rueful smile but accepted the hand up. Her hand was soft even with bits of gravel stuck to the palm here and there. “I didn’t see you either. My things…” She gestured vaguely at the papers she’d dropped. 

“Of course, let me help!” Delighted, Peter helped her gather up her belongings, slipping an envelope in near the top of the stack. If he’d only had some ricin, this could’ve been even better, but he did what he could. Handing her the stack, he tipped his hat just enough that he was sure she could see his whole face. She didn’t recognize him now, but he was satisfied in the knowledge that she definitely would later. “You work at the White House, don’t you? I saw you on TV, but I don’t know exactly where. Are you in the press office?” 

“Yes,” Carol answered, looking slightly less comfortable now. “I’ve been delivering briefings for the past couple of weeks. You’ve probably seen me there.” 

“Right, right, of course.” He gave her his biggest, best smile. She drew back a little more, pulling her papers towards her chest. "Do you like it?" 

Carol was visibly at war with herself now, ingrained politeness warring with the desire to leave. "I do sometimes," she told him. "It keeps me very busy, and I'm running late..."

“Oh, sure." He thought about taking her hand again, but decided it might make her drop the papers again. Instead he just drew a little closer, dropping his voice confidentially. "Someone’s got to do the dirty jobs, right, little Caro? I like you, so I’ll give you one more bit of advice. DC is just filthy this time of year. If I were you, I’d take a vacation.” She stiffened, her breath hitching, but Peter was already loping away before she could say or do anything. Even if he couldn’t attack the White House directly, nothing wrong with keeping them stirred up while they all waited for the finale.


	25. Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to my mom! If you didn't see the update two days ago, make sure you read that one before this one!

Morning staff on Monday started late due to traffic and bad weather, which Roger found a little heartening because it meant that at least most of the staff had actually gone home. Most of them looked a little better after their weekend of downtime, more rested anyway. The sleeting rain had caused several accidents and two train slowdowns, to the point where Carol hadn’t even arrived by the time they finally got going. That was fine, there was plenty of other work to talk about. Right now Donna had the floor, reading off a detailed outline of Operations objectives and what had already been assigned or completed. “Preliminary vetting is done on the candidates for Secretary of State, HUD Secretary, and Interior, so at this point it’s a matter of culling the lists again,” she informed Roger, looking expectant. 

He tried not to wince. “How many file boxes are we looking at here, Donna?” 

She pursed her lips, almost smiling. “Four, sir. And maybe a few extra files that didn’t fit.” 

“All right.” Roger steepled his hands. “That’s good work, very thorough. I want you to give all those boxes to Eric so he can start looking through them for me.” Behind him Eric made a small incoherent noise of protest, but by the time Roger looked around, the man was impassive again. “Problem?” 

“Of course not,” Eric replied, blase. “How many interns do we have again? Are we liable if anyone goes blind?” 

“The White House is exempt from most OSHA requirements,” Margaret informed him helpfully.

“Maybe we could look into changing that soon,” Joey suggested in Kenny’s voice. “A little reasonable accommodation never hurt anybody.”

“Eric once fell down a wheelchair ramp back in California,” Liz countered. “I only wish I’d have had a camera. But I don’t think we should count him as representative of the average citizen.” 

“There are summaries for each candidate,” Donna cut in, looking just a bit nettled that anyone might accuse her of inefficiency. “It should help you narrow the field without needing to read-” 

Her words were cut off as the door from the Outer Office opened abruptly. “Mr. President, Carol’s here,” Syl said hastily, all but hanging off the door as she leaned into the room. “And Simon Donovan too.” 

“Send them in,” Roger said immediately, rising from his chair. Everyone else rose as well, of course, and for once he was too distracted to care. “What’s going on?” 

The press secretary, who could normally be counted on to be the most put-together of any of the staffers, looked like she’d been running laps under a firehose. Next to her, Simon Donovan seemed his normal imperturbable self, until one looked at the hardness in his eyes or the tightness of his jaw. “Ms. Fitzpatrick was approached in her parking lot this morning,” Simon began, “by an individual we have reason to believe was Peter Howell, Jr. “ 

“Oh my god!” Forgetting protocol for a moment, Margaret hustled across the room to Carol. “Are you all right?” she demanded, taking Carol by the shoulders and looking her over like a mother cat inspecting a wayward kitten. “Did he do anything to you? Did he try to make you do anything? Do you need to sit down?” Donna was suddenly there as well, nudging Margaret back a little bit but looking equally concerned.   
“He didn’t do anything to me,” Carol assured them, clasping her hands together tightly. “I mean, well, he knocked me down like it was an accident and then helped me up, but then he started talking…” She wrung her fingers together. “He asked if I liked my job,, and then he called me Little Caro, and suddenly I realized it was the same guy who called the press office. Then he told me that DC was filthy this time of year and I should take a vacation, but before I could do anything, he just left!” Her voice was pitched considerably higher by the end of the recitation, scared and frustrated. 

“What happened then?” Donna asked. “Why are you all wet?” 

“Because I followed him, of course!” Carol all but snapped. “I wasn’t about to let somebody who killed two thousand people just walk away if I could help it! I tried to go after him but I couldn’t keep up and I couldn’t find anybody who’d seen him, so I called the police and called the Secret Service, and they told me to come in.” She slumped over a little, suddenly looking tired. “He knew right where I lived.” 

“Syl?” Roger asked, “could you get some towels for Carol, and tell somebody in the press office to push back morning briefing by ninety minutes?” With some help from the other staffers Carol was quickly seated on one of the candy-striped couches (over her protests about damaging the upholstery) with a coffee mug pressed into her hands while she described the very strange encounter. 

“He was smiling almost the entire time,” Carol told them at the end, “but not in a normal way. He looked like he was on the edge of some cliff, acting like he had everything under control when it was all a step away from falling apart. I wasn’t…” She paused, took a sip of her drink. “Even before I knew who he was, I thought he might hurt me, right up until he ran away.” 

“Whereupon you immediately started chasing him,” Liz finished dryly from her own seat on the opposite couch. 

“Of course I did,” Carol insisted again. “What would you have done? That asshole killed-” She choked a little, her fingers flexing around her mug. “He killed- he shouldn’t be allowed to just get away with that.” 

“Of course not, honey,” Angela soothed, putting an arm around Carol’s shoulders. Margaret was still looking appalled at the idea of Carol chasing a murderer and Donna seemed a million miles away for the moment. “He’s not going to get away with anything.” 

“That’s right,” Roger agreed, trying to project confidence in his voice without revealing how rattled he actually was. Putting Secret Service on Margaret and Donna had seemed like a good precaution, but could he put it on every member of the senior staff? Should he revisit the idea of everybody sleeping over in the Residence for the duration? The idea of anybody threatening one of his advisors to send a message to him made Roger want to punch something, and he was not a violent man. “Howell’s had a run of luck so far, but that runs out today. He doesn’t get to hurt anybody else.” 

Morning staff was pretty much finished after that, as was the morning schedule Syl and Eric had put together. Forty minutes later found Roger walking back into the Sit Room, where the wall screens displayed a dossier of Howell alongside various DC landmarks and maps. Eric was with him as usual and so was Carol, cleaned up and in dry clothes now, but greeting her first visit to the Sit Room with the look of a woman contemplating a move to someplace warm and sparsely populated. 

Simon Donovan was waiting for them, immediately launching into his briefing. “While securing Miss Fitzpatrick’s possessions after her encounter, the Secret Service uncovered a letter hidden among the paperwork she described Howell handling,” he explained in the dry-as-dust tone he seemed to reserve for upsetting news. “It was addressed to President Tribbey, though not in those exact words, and out of an excess of caution-” 

“Not in so many words?” Eric repeated. “What did it say?” 

Simon paused. “It was addressed to, ah, “The almost-late, not-so-great Roger Tribbey.” 

Eric and Roger looked at each other. “Disappointing,” Roger decided for both of them. “I’ve gotten better insults in letters to the editor.” 

“I could definitely come up with better insults for you,” Eric agreed, “but I’ve had years of practice.” 

“Out of an excess of caution,” Simon continued, “we did not bring any of the paperwork into the White House, but had it examined offsite. There didn’t appear to be any contamination, just a note.” He gestured to one of the screens, where a single sheet of handwritten paper appeared. 

“To Whom It May Concern:   
You had your chance to surrender and save lives, but instead you created martyrs for the cause of freedom. Everyone we have killed, everyone we kill, they are all your fault. I only wish I could make you suffer the way Bartlet and his stooges did when they were executed. Your turn will come eventually.   
Sincerely,   
Peter Howell, Jr.” 

“Sincerely?” Eric repeated. 

Simon shrugged. “I’m not here to critique his elements of style. The profilers at the FBI believe that Howell has given up on another substantive governmental target and is going to look for an attack of opportunity, almost certainly in DC, almost certainly very soon. We’re currently narrowing down the list of targets, and the FBI is probably going to suggest mobilizing additional National Guard units.” 

“All right.” Roger took a deep breath, tried to ignore the little voice in his head that thought maybe Howell was just a little bit right about the deaths being partially his fault. “Let’s take this guy down.” 

Roger had always been dimly aware that he’d watched a few too many episodes of Law and Order to have any real understanding of how investigative procedure actually worked, but that knowledge was clearer now than ever before. He knew that he had neither the experience nor the authority to supervise a massive manhunt throughout the DC metroplex, but it was still surprisingly frustrating to stand aside helplessly and wait for updates. He did his best to pay attention to briefings, meetings with staffers, Eric’s grousing about the number of marginally qualified people who really wanted to be Secretary of State, all without really taking much of it in. One of the men who’d killed the President and upended the government was still out there, right in this city, with something big planned. 

Around six-thirty, Syl stopped by with his dinner, palace chicken on chow mein noodles from his favorite cruddy little Chinese place. “You looked like you could use a lift,” she told him. “I got you extra almond cookies and everything.” 

He mustered a smile for her. “Thanks, Syl. Hey, do you know if Carol’s going back to her apartment tonight? If that guy knows where she lives-” 

“She’s going home with Margaret,” Syl assured him. “Margaret’s had her address unpublished for years, and the Secret Service can keep an eye on both of them that way.” 

“Good, that’s good,” Roger nodded. He cracked open the white paper box and poked the chicken with his chopsticks, then looked up at her again. “What about you? If you don’t feel safe going home, I’ve got something like fifteen beds here. Are you still in the phone book?” 

“I’m fine too,” she assured him cheerfully. “Not in the phone book, not on the internet white pages. And much as I might like a White House sleepover to tell my grandkids about, I’ve got the cats to think of.” 

Right.” Roger smiled a little. “Well, give my regards to Sir Twinkletoes.” 

“That’s His Royal Highness Prince Twinkletoes the Valiant to you,” Syl reminded him, “And Lady Speedbump. I’ll tell them you said hello. Are you going to knock it off for the night soon?” 

“Pretty soon. Just got a few more things to read before I go up.” Roger looked at his desk and sighed. For once nothing on his desk was immediately pressing, but he couldn’t imagine actually relaxing anywhere in the Residence tonight. What would he do, watch the evening news? 

“We’re gonna get him, boss,” Syl said quietly, leaning against the doorframe. “He’s showing off, being stupid. Hell, the Press Secretary nearly ran him down in three inch heels, what’s he going to do against the Secret Service? It’s just a matter of time.” 

Roger nodded. “I’ll just be happy when it’s over. Take care Syl, okay? Carry your mace.” 

“Sure thing, Mr. President,” she promised with a grin. “You have a good night.”


	26. Sylvia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close to the end now! I hope you like this chapter, I totally rewrote it once and edited it roughly fifty times before saying hell with it and publishing it.

Back before, well, everything had changed, the ride to work had been one of Sylvia's favorite parts of the day. She had a condo within walking distance of the Metro, so she got a little exercise, then she got to ride down into the city on the Red Line train while getting some knitting done or reading whatever novel she had tucked away in her bag. It was the only way she managed to keep up with her book club, though like as not she was tucking a Harlequin romance in there instead. Sure it was crowded and sure it was sometimes late, but it sure beat fighting traffic or paying central DC rent prices. Sylvia was much happier living someplace near an actual grocery store and commuting a little further to work. 

Things were different now. She honestly couldn't tell exactly why. Maybe it was just the oppressive atmosphere all over town, the weight of fear and suspicion and uncertainty that seemed to be everywhere. It was no better on the trains than anywhere else, and the heightened security in the stations was hardly helping. But Sylvia wondered if it wasn't something to do with her own self too. Everything had been so easy two weeks ago. She'd been the personal assistant to the Secretary of Agriculture for the United States of America, a position lofty enough that her mom could brag about it to her friends, but low-pressure enough that Syl didn't feel horrible stress over the very possibility that she might misfile some important paperwork. When something went wrong in Syl's office at the Department of Agriculture, the bureaucracy got snarled up and maybe people had to resubmit some paperwork. Nobody went to war and nobody died if she screwed up. These days, though... 

She sighed as she rested her head on her hand, staring out the window at the dark tunnel walls passing by outside. These days she wasn't sure what was going to get anybody hurt or killed, and she was terrified to find out. God's honest truth, Sylvia was only about sixty percent sure what her job entailed at all. Roger had secretaries for filing, secretaries for arranging meetings and keeping schedules, secretaries for writing correspondence and going through the mail. Everything that Sylvia had always considered to be part of her job was now wholly absorbed by somebody else, and she was supposed to be in charge of all of them. So far she'd mostly subsumed her anxieties by making it her business to get Roger to eat and sleep, but even that was technically Alex's job. Was somebody going to come along at some point and notice that she wasn't actually doing anything? These days it seemed like the train ride was just one more opportunity to sit around and worry about things she couldn't fix. 

It was weird to step into a half-full train during the morning rush. It would get busy again, she was sure, especially once they reopened all the stops and the various tourist attractions around the Mall. It was a little weird not having school groups and tourist families riding the trains and loudly consulting their maps, but she supposed she understood why people had been staying home. Maybe when the museums opened up again, she'd go over to the Mall and take in the Museum of Natural History. It had been much too long since she'd made the time to see something amazing. 

This morning's train was mostly businesspeople bundled in long coats and hats against the chilly wind, reading magazines or binders and not looking at one another. She could've sworn one guy was looking at her, but when she glanced over, he was looking at somebody else. Maybe he was just staring at everyone in the car in turn. He had on a long, too-big trenchcoat, and Syl entertained the errant thought that he might be an old-timey flasher looking for an opportunity to startle somebody, but his face looked very familiar so perhaps he'd ridden on this train before. Despite herself, she found herself sneaking looks his way several more times as the train made its jerky way through the downtown stops. The last time, she looked over to find him staring directly at her. She looked away hastily.

As the train pulled in towards Metro Center station, Syl gathered her things and checked to make sure her own coat was secure before standing with the other passengers. The train slowed and stopped as a muffled, distorted voice over the speaker said something that sounded like "Dishes Medrocinder" before the doors slid open. The center platform between east and westbound trains was narrow and busy, with commuters streaming in both directions to reach the escalators to the other train lines and eventually the surface. Rather to her chagrin, Sylvia found herself pressed up against Trenchcoat guy when he stepped out of the train and stopped, trapping her between him and the safety line painted on the concrete. "Excuse me," she murmured, trying to edge her way around. "I need to get through." 

"We all need a lot of things," he told her, looking into her face with a sudden cheerfulness that seemed almost manic. "You think you need to go to work, but you really don't. I bet you're stuck in one of those little government offices up there, aren't you?" He moved with her deliberately now, not quite touching, but definitely inside her personal space, even when she stepped back and nearly crashed into the people behind her. "Such important work going on in those grotesque little warrens. People's lives to run, people's lives to ruin every day, and all the little bureaucrats, changing lives with the stroke of a pen." 

"Look, I just want to get to work," Syl told him firmly. Sometimes men just didn't respond to sweet reason. She didn't really want to go for the pepper spray in her purse, not in this kind of crowd, but she wasn't above screaming if she had to. "If you've got some kind of axe to grind..." 

A movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention, an unnatural disruption of the flow of traffic on the platform. There were people cutting across the rush in their direction, jostling travelers aside left and right. Some announcement was coming over the loudspeakers, but she couldn't hear anything this close to the train. Before Syl could get a better look, the man grabbed her arm, swinging her towards him. "You were watching me on the train," he hissed. "You know who I am, don't you. Are they Secret Service? FBI?" 

Sylvia looked at his face again, and suddenly her heart jumped into her throat. She did know him. She hadn't been invited to any of Roger's meetings in the Sit Room or anything, but she saw almost every document that passed over his desk. Peter Howell Jr. was thinner now than in his last school ID picture, with longer hair and a substantially crazier look in his eye, but she knew him. And in that moment, she knew exactly why he was here, and what he was planning to do. She struggled to free her arm, but he was surprisingly strong for a weedy guy. 

"Who is it?" he repeated, louder. People were looking at them now, some hesitating, but the inertia of crowd motion was still a little too strong to have anybody intervening on what looked like a normal argument. Screaming would stop them, bring them closer, but that was suddenly the last thing Syl wanted. Everybody on the platform was suddenly much too close for comfort. 

"Could be all of them," she drawled with false bravado. "They're all on your ass, they know what you look like and where you live and how you think. They're all chasing you now. Run now, and maybe you get away one more time." There were so many people here, she thought desperately. How many people were within five hundred feet of them? She sure as hell was in range herself. How long did it take to trigger that device, anyway? What would it feel like if he did? She tried to remember the self-defense classes she'd taken when she first moved to the big city, a million years ago now in California. Break the hold was the first rule, she had to wait for a distraction or make one, then break the hold... "Last chance," she warned. 

Howell grinned broadly now, not releasing her arm. Apparently she'd said the wrong thing, done something to settle his mind rather than scare him off. "There's no more running now," he told her. "I'd planned to do this upstairs, but I don't think your friends are going to let me." He swung her around, bringing her spine flush against his chest so that she could feel the bumps of the metal canisters strapped to him. "Don't hold your breath," he advised, sounding almost sincere. "It'll only prolong the agony. Just try to remember that your death is for the greater good." 

Around them the uniformed officers were coming closer, most of them wearing full respirator face masks. This was more than enough to start people panicking in a city still on edge from the Capitol attack. Nobody knew where to go, only that they wanted to be away. Overhead, the loudspeaker was still blaring unintelligible instructions, only adding to the growing commotion. A knot of commuters, completely ignorant of where the danger was, plowed straight past Sylvia and Howell and back onto the train despite the closing doors. It was enough to knock both of them off-balance for just a moment. 

Syl seized the opportunity, wrenching her arm away with a move that felt like it left skin behind but got her free. Break the hold, she reminded herself, then strike whatever you could get access to. What the hell did he even have that wasn't wired to kill her and everybody else here? There was no time to think. Balling her hand up into a fist that was entirely wrong for any combat situation, she wound up and punched the sonofabitch in the throat, then ran like hell. Behind her, she could hear him coughing and screaming, heard the police start yelling, heard the train pull away from the station. She couldn't help it, she held her breath.


End file.
